


burn all your civilian clothes

by stutter



Series: civilians [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mundane Lives, Anxiety, Drag Race isn't really a thing, M/M, could be considered a soulmates AU if you really squint at it sideways, the timeline has been compromised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-11-28 15:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stutter/pseuds/stutter
Summary: “You’re a drag queen?” Brian repeats, hand over his throat, clutching invisible pearls. Trixie’s chest constricts.“Yeah, Mary, a crossdresser,” he drawls. “I wear lady clothes for fun and profit. Heard of it?”“Oh my god, no, don’t get the - no, it’s just perfect,” Brian says quickly. “I’m not laughing at you! I’m - I love drag. Don’t get sensitive.”(Trixie's a semi-successful drag queen living in LA. There's this yoga instructor he really likes.)





	1. i've tried to go it straight, but i've got no clue how to

**Author's Note:**

> fic playlist can be found here:  
> https://spoti.fi/2VMl5zQ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title (and chapter titles) from "This is the World of the Theater" by The New Pornographers, which is where this idea sprouted from.

So last night at Tiger Shark, halfway through Trixie’s second set at like 1:45am, some awful WeHo gays got too turnt on their Tito’s-soda-splash-of-crans and started heckling in a way that was neither charming nor entertaining, so she had them booted. And as one of the rotten little Michaels was being none-too-gently manhandled out of the bar, he flung his drink all over Trixie, like a Real Housewife of the Fucking Underworld, and she had to finish her set with a ruined face through a haze of furious, mortifying, unshed tears. 

And he _still_ drags himself out of bed for Brian’s 12:15 vinyasa flow. 

Bob’s awake at the kitchen counter when Trixie stumbles, athleisured for the gods and rubbing his eyes, out of his bedroom. “Don’t forget your water bottle,” Bob says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Thirst is real, y’know.”

”I know, your wigs have been telling me all about it,” Trixie shoots back over his shoulder. Bob cracks up. “You wanna come with?”

“Absolutely not,” Bob says. “I don’t hate myself like you do. Nobody makes me work that hard without paying me.”

“It’s called self-care, okay, and sometimes self-care is hard,” Trixie says in his whitest white girl voice. “Brunch later?”

“Bitch, it’s _Tuesday,_ ” Bob says. “Why are you like this?”

“ _Ugh,_ you sound just like my therapist, it’s so hot.” Trixie shoulders the door open before Bob can get another dig in, and dips. 

Most of his dedication truly is just down to his serious fitness journey, fighting against genetics and laziness and vicious Chik-fil-A cravings to keep himself breathing and performing and earning money past the age of like, 32. If the stress doesn’t kill him first.

That’s most of it. 

He breezes past the front desk, grabs a rental mat, and gets into the studio with just moments to spare. He stops dead. It’s _packed_ inside. His usual safe space in the back left corner, occupied. The backup spot, upstage right, near the big peace lily, also claimed. By some Lululemon with a perfect body and nothing to hide, how dare she. 

“Hi,” says Brian brightly. “Come on in. There’s some room up here.” He gestures with a long, sinewy leg, toe pointed perfectly.

Dead center. Front row, like six inches from Brian’s very blue eyes. 

“Awesome,” Trixie smiles, miserable. He picks his way over the sea of mats and lays his out, practically at Brian’s feet, like an offering. 

“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” Brian asks, more quietly, when Trixie’s settling on his mat. “Welcome back.”

Trixie’s heart smashes against his ribs. He can’t think of anything clever to say, but it doesn’t matter, because Brian’s turned away to fuss with his iPhone docked in the speaker system before he can open his mouth. 

Brian is lithe and bearded and covered in tattoos and has the buzzed head of a man coming to terms with a fierce balding fantasy. Which, same, honey. He plays the weirdest music during his classes. He makes jokes. Trixie likes watching him contort himself into beautiful shapes from a comfortable distance at the back of the room, like it’s simple, like it’s _fun._

Trixie might be in love with him. If he were capable of it, and if love existed. So instead, he’s just uselessly, _desperately_ hot for him. 

“Hi, guys,” says Brian. He pads over to the door and pushes it shut. As he wanders back to the front, he goes on, “So - y’know, listen to your bodies, trust your instincts, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to wave me over.” He whips off his shirt. Trixie’s brain fuzzes briefly like an old radio being tuned. “I do sometimes come around and give adjustments, but if you don’t want me to touch you, you know - you can please absolutely feel free to say that. Or just, a blood-curdling scream will also work.” He smiles at them, bewilderingly. “So let’s come to the top of the mat in tadasana and get into it, right?”

The music fades in as they shuffle into position. Brian has picked some kind of corny 1970’s easy-listening deep cut. Trixie huffs out a giggle despite himself. Brian catches his eye and raises a brow, wiggles his shoulders in his direction in time to the electric piano. Trixie feels his neck and ears go red and looks away. 

“So, guys, while we’re in mountain pose, really root down through your feet,” says Brian. “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath in and then let it out in your own time. If you want to, like, set an intention or focus on a goal for class, do that now.”

_Don’t draw any more attention to yourself,_ Trixie thinks. _There’s your intention, Mary. Turn invisible and get out alive._ He knows his eyes are supposed to be closed, but he peeks. Brian is smiling a little, swaying to Helen Reddy’s okayest hits. He catches Trixie looking again but doesn’t make a thing of it, just keeps surveying the class. So Trixie keeps looking. 

“On the in-breath, arms up. On your exhale, swan dive into uttanasana, forward fold,” he intones, demonstrating by arching up with a ballerina’s easy grace and then bending bonelessly in half. Trixie’s pulse jackhammers. Everyone around him folds over and he’s still standing there staring like he’s been bodysnatched. With some effort, he rolls down, hissing out lower back tension through his teeth. 

The heels are killing him. Oh, sure. The hours, maybe. The corseting, the ten-pound tits. What isn’t killing him? Everything hurts, all the time. He breathes in and out. Brian, yammers on, “Focus on your breath. Nobody else is gonna remind you to do that today, got it? So soak it up. Then walk that shit back into plank and chaturanga.”

This queen. Between classes it’s easy to forget the other thing about Brian - Trixie _hates_ him. Hates his cheery disposition as he pushes them into ever more demanding poses, the madcap flow of a yogi who doesn’t realize the rest of the world is _not_ on his level. Hates that everyone else seems, like, _fine_ with this, like Trixie’s the one with the problem. 

He hits a wall about halfway through class, hears the nasty little voice that lives near his left ear telling him to quit, that he can’t do it. He feels a prickle in his throat and swallows it down, angrily, glaring into the middle distance. And then, when they’ve been in chair pose for fully six minutes and Trixie’s trying not to just collapse onto his knees like the broken woman he is, then it gets _worse._

“Can I give you an adjustment?” Brian says softly against his neck, behind him all at once like the fucking Babadook, a human jumpscare. Trixie’s shoulders shoot up by his ears. Some idiot’s voice honks out of his mouth, “Yah, totally.”

A pair of hands frame his hips, feather-light, and pull them backwards. Trixie sucks in a breath and arches his back harder, trying to get it right. He’s always been a people pleaser. His knees are shaking, but he knows it ain’t just the muscle strain. 

_“There,”_ murmurs the instructor, approval coloring his voice. “So good. You feel that?”

“Uh huh,” Trixie croaks. 

“Keep bearing down like that, and when you feel it all the way down your legs? That’s when you know you’re doing it right,” he says, and then without another word he’s floated off to destroy someone else’s life.

You don’t get through a childhood like Trixie’s without becoming a real expert in compartmentalization. That’s a _life skill,_ ma’am. He files the whole exchange away into a folder of his brain labeled To Jack Off About Later and spends the remainder of the class focusing as hard as he can on the succulent sitting in the studio’s one window. Not on Brian, guilelessly pretzeling himself through the rest of the hour, even though it feels like he keeps glancing Trixie’s way. Maybe this is what people who take yoga seriously actually do - focus on their bodies, center their thoughts, not constantly glance around to see who’s watching. Sounds nice. Sounds way out of his depth.

When they’re finally laying supine at the end of class, the music fades down. Sweat trickles down the sides of Trixie’s face and into his ears, making him shudder. 

“I’m gonna finish us out with a meditation,” comes Brian’s voice. He clears his throat. “‘You’re an interesting species, an interesting mix,’” he intones slowly. “‘You’re capable of such beautiful dreams, and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone, only you’re not. See, in all our searching, the only thing we’ve found that makes the emptiness bearable... is each other.’ Namaste, guys.”

The clear tone of a singing bowl sounds. He can hear people around him shifting to their feet and knows he should open his eyes, but it’s comfortable on the floor. The bowl’s music rolls through his ears, right to left, right to left.

Does he fall asleep for a hot second? Who knows, Karen, mind your own business.

He comes to with a few fingers prodding carefully at his shoulder. His eyes flicker open on an empty room and Brian’s face hovering above him, holding back a grin.

“Oh, hi,” Trixie says immediately, “I’m just down here meditating. For fun, and on purpose.”

“That sounds _fabulous,"_ Brian enthuses. “But there’s another class coming in here pretty soon. You could take it out to our meditation room?”

“No, I’m good, I’m one with the universe now.” Trixie rolls to his knees and starts folding up his mat in a hurry. He can feel his ears and neck burning red. 

Brian says, “I have seen you in here before, haven’t I?” Trixie looks up to find him studying him with those clear blue eyes, head cocked to one side. 

Trixie really just wants to disappear, but he climbs to his feet to face the yoga teacher instead. His limbs feel jittery. It’s dumb. “Yeah, I come through when I can. I usually hide in the back.” 

“You did great,” Brian says earnestly. “I hate being in the front. It’s fucking awful.”

Trixie scoffs. “No, you don’t.”

“Okay, no, I don’t,” agrees Brian, making Trixie let out an actual laugh. “I’m just trying to be nice. You were glaring at me that whole hour like you _hated_ me.” He’s grinning when he says it, broadly. His teeth are extremely straight and white. Trixie’s extremely gay and getting pinker by the second. 

“It’s not you,” he says. “I just hate hard work. I’ve been told I have resting cuntface.” 

Brian presses his lips together. “That’s a serious medical condition, you know,” he says. “It put my Aunt Bernadette in the hospital.” 

He’s playing with him, Trixie realizes, setting him up. “Oh my god, that’s awful,” Trixie says. He’s caught the rhythm of their conversation now, jumps in like it’s double dutch. “You know someone named _Bernadette?”_

Brian lets out a quick, delighted scream. God, his laugh’s almost as bad as Trixie’s own. His teen years must’ve been a nightmare. “You’re a piece of work,” he says, approvingly. He sticks out his hand. “What’s your name? I’m Brian.”

“I know your name, girl, I signed up for your class,” Trixie says, rolling his eyes. He takes Brian’s outstretched hand, gives it the firmest squeeze he’s got.

“You _are_ kind of a cunt,” Brian observes, beaming. “It’s not just your face. It’s your whole personality. What’s your name, _bitch?”_

Trixie squeals with laughter. “It’s actually - I’m Brian, too.”

“Get out!” Brian gushes. “That’s some, like, serendipitous shit right there!” 

“Yeah, but everyone just calls me Trixie mostly,” Trixie says, before he can stop himself. Like they’re friends. 

“‘Tracy?’” Brian asks, leaning in, tilting his head like a confused hound. 

Trixie snorts. “Sure, that’s perfect.”

“No, wait! What is it?” Brian’s still got Trixie’s hand. He squeezes until Trixie yanks it away, holding back a smile. “Not Tracy?” 

“Nope, it’s Tracy. That’s what it is. Anyway, nice meeting you, Ryan.” Trixie grins and makes for the door. Brian’s hyena laugh lashes against his back, fills the space. 

“Wait, _wait,”_ he protests. Trixie turns. He’s backlit in the sun coming through the window. The shadow turns his eyes almost silver. 

“I - like, um, sometimes I do private sessions,” he says. Trixie’s heart shablams into his stomach. Brian’s expression is calm, unwavering. He takes a step closer. His calves are so defined, it’s sick. “Like, if you want any more adjustments. Or maybe if you have a specific goal in mind. Something you’re trying to achieve.” 

Trixie is braindead. Brian continues, very casually, “Maybe you should take my number, just in case that’s something that appeals to you.” 

Trixie stares at him, open-mouthed. “A ‘specific goal?’” he repeats stupidly. 

“Yeah, you know, some people really flourish in a more… intimate setting,” Brian says offhand. 

Trixie’s bullshit detector is going haywire. He gets the unsettling impression he’s being fucked with. The whole past hour of his life feels surreal, dreamlike. But it’s hard to tell what kind of dream he’s having - the blowing-the-quarterback kind, or the naked-from-the-waist-down-in-Algebra-2 kind.

“And we’re talking about a private training session,” Trixie says slowly, fighting to keep a straight face. 

“Sure,” says Brian, and then either he experiences a minor facial twitch, or he winks. 

Trixie folds his arms over his chest. “Because it sounds - someone else might think it sounded like you were coming on to them,” he says. “At your place of work.”

“No way,” Brian says, smiling. “I wouldn’t do that. Wait, how dare you insinuate such a thing? At my place of _work?_ That would be _reckless.”_

Trixie watches him, eyebrow raised, even though he feels totally off-balance, staggery like a baby deer. He’s a woman of mystery, god damn it, he’s not about to lose a staring contest to this bendy weirdo.

“Seriously, get out, that’s so insulting,” Brian suddenly demands, pointing to the door. 

“Oh my god,” says Trixie. His knees go weak, pansy that he is. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - I’ll go, I’m so -“

Brian cracks like an egg, throwing his head back in a giddy wheeze. “I’m fucking with you, I’m sorry,” he says, hands up. “Hang on, hang on, don’t go!”

“Fuck you!” Trixie shrills, mortified. Brian cackles madly. 

“I am, I am, I’m totally coming on to you,” he gasps. “You’re so cute. Wanna get - y’know, an ice cream cone sometime? A chocolate malted?”

“No!” Trixie squawks. “You’re an insane person.” But his mouth is twitching, and his skin feels hot. Cute. He thinks he’s _cute._

“Yeah, but in a fun way, not a scary way,” Brian says. “C’mon, Tracy. Let me open your hip flexors. They need it.”

“Oh my god, buy me a drink first,” Trixie says, rolling his his eyes. “Also, seriously, fuck you.” Brian’s beaming at him, victorious. Trixie’s poker face is no good unless he draws it on. 

“So what’s your name, actually?” Brian asks. “I’m not going to keep fucking calling you Tracy.” 

Trixie takes a breath. “Trixie,” he says, enunciating for Brian’s seemingly broken ears. 

_“Trixie.”_ Brian says the name like it tastes good, crispy and sweet. He’s smiling knowingly, as if Trixie’s just started a joke and he’s already guessed the punchline. Trixie sets his jaw.

“Uh-huh. Trixie. I’m a drag queen,” he says evenly. 

It’s still kind of hard to say in the daylight, kind of oddly mortifying outside the dark and noise of a club or the safety of his apartment. He tries to channel Bob’s steely gaze, the dare-you-to-say-some-shit one. Nothing bad’s gonna come of being honest. This wacko granola queen’s probably put on a kitten heel once or twice, himself. Maybe tried a smokey eye for the winter solstice, or whatever. Trixie imagines that face under all the beard could really sing with the right paint. He’s trying to visualize it, doing a psychic makeover, when he realizes Brian’s laughing again. He grits his teeth. 

“You’re a drag queen?” Brian repeats, hand over his throat, clutching invisible pearls. Trixie’s chest constricts. 

“Yeah, Mary, a crossdresser,” he drawls. “I wear lady clothes for fun and profit. Heard of it?”

“Oh my god, no, don’t get the - no, it’s just perfect,” Brian says quickly. “I’m not laughing at you! I’m - I love drag. Don’t get sensitive.”

Relief floods in. “I’m not _sensitive,_ ” Trixie warbles, screwing up his face in pretend tears. 

Brian giggles. “God, she really _is_ a queen,” he says with a smile. There’s something in his tone that Trixie might flatter himself to call admiration. “So, but what about that date?” 

Trixie can’t help but feel like the other shoe’s gonna drop any second. And he’s got big fucking feet, so it’s going to hurt like a bitch if he doesn’t watch his head. 

Still, he holds out his hand. “Gimme your phone.”

Brian pulls it out of his pocket and passes it over. Trixie taps his number in, labels it _Trixie Mattel_ with a maelstrom of pink heart emojis. Lean in, binch. 

“Cool,” Brian says. He looks down at the phone, and then up at Trixie again, still smiling his blithe smile. 

Trixie’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a new text from an unknown number. 

It’s a picture of himself, in this room, his hand on his hip and his expression shuttered tight, watching Brian watch him. As he stares at it, bemused, a second picture comes through: a tighter, blurrier zoom on his own face, staring at his phone, mouth open in soft surprise. 

“Sorry, I have to take this.” Trixie waves his phone towards Brian. “Some creepy pervert is texting me and I should probably make sure he doesn’t, you know, hurt himself or others -“

“He sounds _awful,_ text him back,” Brian urges gleefully. “I’ve got another class in like twenty minutes anyway that I should probably, like, come up with a plan for. But I’ll catch you soon, Trinity.” 

And then he’s slipping past Trixie without another word, and Trixie’s alone in the silent yoga studio like the whole thing was a fever dream he had after collapsing from exhaustion. His heart’s beating Red Bull fast. He takes one good breath, purses his lips so he’ll stop smiling, and texts Kim, who is much more likely to indulge him in his cathartic brunch fantasy than Bob. He deserves breakfast tacos more than anyone in the world right now. It’s a lot of emotion for a Tuesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK BUT I DONT NEED TO TELL Y'ALL WHAT BRIAN'S MEDITATION IS FROM, RIGHT?
> 
> Feedback is adored!


	2. kid gloves and stranger loves you've known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY. heads up, there’s some sex in this one. Probably nothing more explicit than they’d show on premium cable.

Trixie has another gig that night, but it’s an earlier call, a deader bar, an older crowd. Good tippers, if not a little over it. Of course, she wishes they’d be slightly more dazzled by her flawless illusion of feminine charm, but she’s smart enough to know it’s not always about her. Room full of aging queers on a weeknight? She takes their ones and fives greedily like they’re winning lotto tickets, makes her eyes wide behind her bandit mask of lashes, lip syncs “Like A Prayer” and “Love is a Battlefield” like she wrote the damn words herself. Maybe they don’t eat her up, but they politely take a free sample, and in the neon-lit Costco of this industry, that’s about all you can ask for, honey. 

She’s done by one, and when she gets home Bob’s already there, off tonight with Indian takeout and a bony armful of Naomi Smalls. “Oh, it’s you,” Trixie says, kicking off her heels and beelining to the bathroom to start peeling herself out of face. 

“Oh my god, I like that dress,” Naomi calls after her. “Like, for you.”

Bob snorts. Trixie’s lips curl in the mirror as she eases her wig off, then her lashes. Alopecia, but make it fashion. The face in the mirror is alien, not quite herself. Not quite himself, either. 

“You can borrow it any time,” he yells back to Naomi, “but don’t stretch it out, you fucking whale.”

That really gets Bob howling, which Trixie finds more gratifying than he’ll ever admit. He turns the shower on, shedding layers of nylon and padding, and then grabs his phone from his bag in the other room while he waits for the water to get hot. 

He’s got a nice scroll of brightly-colored notifications to pore over, some cute tags in stories and Boomerangs from his set. He responds to a few of them in hearts and glitter, reposts a couple on his own story.

There’s also a text from an unsaved number, sent an hour ago: _hello there young ladyman._

He laughs softly. When he expands the text, it slots into place under the two creepshots of his own face, first looking doubtful and then slightly shocked. He still doesn’t save Brian into his phone. Seems preemptive, seems like a jinx. _excuse me how did you get this number,_ he texts back. The steam from the shower is getting serious, heavy on every inhale. He drops his phone on the sink and wriggles out of the rest of his padding, tomorrow-Trixie’s problem now, and steps into the shower. 

His breath goes out in a low _unhh_ of pleasure as the water pummels his sore back, such a femme little noise that he laughs aloud at himself. He’s got a couple nights free before the next gig. He’s managed to get his next two shifts at Sephora covered. He can spend all tomorrow doing whatever he likes: fucking around on his guitar, playing video games, texting Brian. Maybe he’ll hike Runyon Canyon, finally, like he keeps meaning to do. 

Well, so probably not that. But the possibilities stretch out before him, golden and sunlit in his brain. Between these last couple shows, rent is nearly covered for the month. It’s not a bad life, Mary. It’s really not bad at all. 

Once he’s clean, full boy in an old tank top and shorts, he wanders out into the living room. Naomi is curled into Bob’s side like a spindly shadow, mostly asleep, looks like. Interesting.

“What did I miss?” Trixie asks at the TV, flinging himself down on Bob’s other side. “Catch me up.”

Bob raises a nonexistent eyebrow at him. “There was a murder,” he says, “and they got away with it.” 

“Oh, wow,” Trixie marvels. “But _how?_ ”

“That constitutes a spoiler, Trixie Mattel, and this is a spoiler-free household,” Bob says. He’s keeping his voice down a little, in a totally out-of-character move for him. Trixie’s eyes flick to Naomi, breathing steady and deep. He looks back up at Bob, who offers no commentary on the matter. Trixie smiles and doesn’t say anything. Which, to be fair, is totally out of character for him, too.

His phone goes off. _I should like to know the same thing!  
what’s a nice girl like you doing giving out her personal contact information to a wild-eyed sex offender such as myself?_

“Oh my god,” Trixie mutters. _I’m actually not all that nice,_ he texts back. 

_a drag queen with a mean streak?? call the LA times, we’ve got a real story on our hands_

Trixie giggles, louder than he means to. Bob turns, sensing mischief and fuckery. 

“Who is it?” he asks, craning to see. Trixie moves the phone away and elbows at him. 

“Nobody. Watch your show.” _Print journalism is dead. How old ARE you?_

“Girl.” He looks up to find Bob watching him, eyes narrowed behind his giant glasses. “If you’re texting your trash ex…”

Trixie laughs, genuinely surprised. “I’m not!”

Brian writes, _I’m helena markos honey._ Trixie doesn’t get the reference. He goes to google it, trying to come up with a quip that’s vague enough to not give him away. 

“Trix.” Bob’s tone is a hair gentler. Trixie puts his phone face-down and gives Bob his full attention. 

“I’m not,” he tells him seriously. “Honestly. It’s somebody else.”

Bob goes back to the TV. “Because it’s none of my business, and I don’t give a shit, but I can’t spend another month mopping you off the floor,” he says, even quieter than before. If Naomi hears, he doesn’t react. Bob pulls out his own phone with his free hand, gets very interested in his Twitter feed suddenly.

Trixie’s heart thuds. “You’ve got better things to mop, right?” he jokes. His delivery is pretty weak. Bob doesn’t take the bait, just cuts a glance back over at him that shuts him up at once. 

Bob never does the dishes. He leaves his makeup all over the bathroom, gets eyeshadow in the sink. But there are things Trixie will never be able to thank him properly for, things mostly pertaining to making lots of noise when Trixie needs a distraction and knowing exactly when to go radio silent. “I’m not doing that again. I promise,” he says. He nods at the phone. “This isn’t anything, even. He’s not even my type.”

Bob’s expression loosens. His mouth twitches. “Well, your type is, like, guys with big dicks who hate you, so let’s hope not,” he deadpans. 

“Don’t all girls wanna marry their dads?” Trixie asks, making his eyes wide. Bob winces, then bursts out laughing. Trixie’s phone nudges the palm of his hand. 

_youve seen suspiria right?? the original i mean the real one_

Trixie gnaws his lip, considers lying, decides not to. _No. is it good?_

“Now I’m just curious,” Bob says. “Who is he?”

_OH! it’s the fucking best. bitch you’ll love it. why dont you come over and watch it this week if youre free?_

“Nobody,” Trixie mumbles. He types, _is it scary?_

_ooky, spooky, AND creepy. but dont worry tracy, i’ll hold your hand._

Trixie grins, too wide. Bob tries to knock Trixie’s phone out of his grasp, presumably because Trixie has stopped paying attention to him for ten fucking seconds. He angles his body away. “It’s actually _your_ dad,” he says conspiratorially. “And no, he still doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

“This is the thanks I get for being such a good friend,” Bob deadpans. 

Some other version of Trixie might say, you are a good friend, thank you for looking out for me. This version of Trixie says, “Fine, I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“You’re psycho,” Bob says fondly. “And you’re gonna die alone.”

Brian texts his address over. Trixie smiles. “God, I fucking hope so, after spending all this time with you.”

“Get a _room,_ ” groans Naomi, throwing a pillow over his face. 

—-

They set a date. They text a lot in the meantime, talk on the phone a little. Obviously, Trixie has no idea what’s going to happen. 

(But he douches, because he kinda knows what’s going to happen.)

—-

Trixie stops at a liquor store near Brian’s place before he goes in to meet him. He spends too long staring into the cooler expectantly, like it’s a magic eye poster with something to reveal to him. Beer feels fratty, wine faggy in the extreme. He ends up settling on a six-pack of dry cider, which seems like a vaguely vers move. Better to try and leave a little mystery. Hang a lampshade on that lightbulb, Stanley, or what have you.

“Oh, _hi,_ thank you!” Brian says when he throws the door open, pulling Trixie in for half a hug. They’ve been texting a lot the last couple days, but it still puts a warm little ache in Trixie’s gut to see him, a quiet thrill. Brian steps aside to let Trixie in. “Lemme open these up. You didn’t need to bring anything, you damn Girl Scout.” 

Trixie snorts. “I wasn’t raised by wolves,” he says.

“I was,” Brian says. “ _And_ in a barn, incidentally. They were barn wolves. How dare you insult my family. Have a seat, get comfortable, oh my god.”

Trixie catches a northeastern tang on the back half of the sentence. He settles on the couch, grinning. “You have an accent,” he calls, watching Brian flit around in the adjoining kitchen. It’s a cute place, small and spartan. A few posters in frames: Bjork and _Fire Walk With Me_ and _Contact._ A couple of books on the shelf: _Just Kids_ and _Catching the Big Fish._ “Where are you from?”

“The depths of hell, bitch,” Brian says in a horrible rasp. He comes back into the living room and plunks down beside Trixie, handing him a bottle. Trixie drinks. “And you’ve got one, too, don’t think I didn’t notice. What country-ass corn maze did you escape from before you came here, Lou-Anne?”

Trixie almost snorts cider up his nose, which sets Brian off into giggles again. 

“God, you are cute,” he says, smiling brilliantly. Trixie’s skin feels static-shocked. 

“Yeah, it’s hard, honestly, being blessed with this perfect body _and_ an amazing personality,” he says. 

“And so modest,” Brian crows. He turns his attention to the TV. “So, you ready?”

“I guess. This better be good,” Trixie says, rolling his eyes. 

“I promise.” Spooky, proggy music, distorted in that analog way that takes Trixie back to the old VHS tapes of his early adolescence, fills the room. Brian slaps his knee. “Fuck, should I have made popcorn or something? Do you need food?” he asks urgently. “Do you need water?”

“No, honestly, I ate earlier,” Trixie lies. Because it’s better than the truth: _I’m holding out hope that you might pound me out tonight, and I wouldn’t digest food with my worst enemy’s intestines._

“Because once it gets rolling, you’re not gonna wanna get up,” Brian warns. 

“Calm down, crazy, I’ll take my chances,” Trixie says. He takes another sip of his drink and scoots a little closer. Brian’s eyes flash down to the space between them, then to Trixie’s face, but he doesn’t say anything, just smiles.

They watch the movie. For about ten minutes. 

The first kill shocks him; he screams, delighted, and buries his face in Brian’s shoulder on impulse. 

“I told you!” Brian cackles. He grabs Trixie’s knee, wraps his other hand around the back of his neck. Chills crop up all the way from his spine down to his fingertips. “The greatest. Didn’t I tell you?”

“You told me,” Trixie says. Part of him wants to pull back, tap out, re-establish a physical boundary. Part of him wants to inch closer. He pushes himself up on his knees to look Brian in the eyes. Brian looks back, doesn’t move. His fingers twitch against the nape of Trixie’s neck. This feels stupid. It feels like a really stupid, really good idea. 

“You’re missing important - plot points and character development moments,” Brian whispers, right before Trixie leans in and kisses him. 

_“Hmm,”_ says Brian. His arms settle weightlessly around Trixie’s hips. _Can I give you an adjustment?_ Trixie opens his mouth against Brian’s, cants his hips forward a half inch. 

His beard scratches the skin of Trixie’s jaw. His mouth tastes like cigarettes and mint gum, a smoker with manners. It’s awful. Trixie needs it. 

“Oh my god,” Brian says, pulling away for a breath. Now that Trixie’s noticed his accent it’s all he can hear, the wide-open vowels harsh and honest. “You are so - you’ve got to let me - ”

Trixie falls backward onto the couch, bringing Brian with him. “You can, you can,” he breathes. He wraps a leg around Brian’s waist and digs his heel into the small of his back, pushing their bodies flush together. That’s yoga, honey. _That’s_ setting an intention. Brian groans. He gets a hand between their bodies and runs his palm under Trixie’s t-shirt, getting a clawful of love handle. Trixie snakes his own hand down to cover Brian’s, start pushing their fingers toward the button on Trixie’s jeans. 

“Is this okay?” Brian gasps, nonsensically. “Is this, like, good?”

Trixie hisses out a laugh against his lips. “You are so _weird,_ ” he marvels. “Yes, this is obviously good, you nervous old queen. You want me to beg or something?”

Brian laughs, too, wild and loud. “I have a broken brain,” he protests, then stops. “Wait, yes, I totally do. Is that an option? Are you gonna beg for me?”

“No, fuck you,” Trixie says. He feels giddy, a little unhinged, fluttery under his sternum and in his fingers. Brian’s mouth is on his again, urgent and hungry. 

“Yeah, sure,” he murmurs. “In a minute.” He wrestles Trixie’s fly open and grabs him through his briefs, starts rubbing insistently. Trixie’s breath goes out of him, hard like violence. He hides his face in the crook of Brian’s neck, breathing through his teeth. Brian leans in and nips at his ear. “All I’ve been able to think about is getting my hands on you, nonstop, since I saw you in my class the other day,” he whispers. “I thought, who is that incredibly flexible master yogi -”

“Oh my god, don’t be an asshole,” Trixie grits out, flushing to the ears.

“- glaring at me like he wants to break my legs in the parking lot, with the _best,_ the most _perfect_ ass I’ve ever seen,” Brian goes on, tightening his grip. “You have _no_ idea. What it’s like to look at you. Do you? You’re _clueless.”_

Trixie is not often rendered speechless, but all he can do is shake his head. Brian keeps stroking him, nuzzling against the side of his face. A spasm of pleasure jabs him in the stomach, and he grabs Brian’s wrist, pushes him away. Not like this, Debra. 

“Hang on, hang on,” he whispers. He tugs at Brian’s shirt until he gets the idea and flings it off. His skin glows red and blue in the light from the screen. Trixie grabs him, sucks a kiss against the ink on his collarbone. He wants to examine all of Brian’s tattoos in detail, with his eyes and fingers and mouth. Brian makes a quiet, satisfied sound and pushes Trixie slowly down onto his back. 

Trixie lets Brian wrestle him out of his clothes, lets him press his full weight on top of him, lets him kiss him until they’re both breathless. Then he banks his weight hard to the left, so Brian tumbles gracelessly off him and onto the floor. “What’s wrong?” he gasps, but Trixie’s already landed on top of him, straddling his legs and working open the fly on Brian’s jeans.

“Nothing,” he says, trying not to grin. “I just like it when a guy _falls_ for me.”

Brian groans and throws a hand over his face. “This is over,” he says. “You’ve, that’s, you’re _reprehensible._ You’ve killed my boner, maybe forever.”

“That’s such a shame,” Trixie sighs. “I was really hoping you’d fuck me with it.”

Brian’s big eyes get bigger, then he lets out a quick huff of laughter, high and shocked. “Okay, you know what, never mind, false alarm,” he says seriously. He runs his hands up Trixie’s thighs. Trixie’s breath catches. “Anyway, not related, you wanna go check out my bedroom?”

“Yeah, sure.” Trixie pulls back to let Brian stand. Brian reaches down for him, tugs him to his feet and into another long kiss. 

“Not for sex or anything,” Brian says. “I’ve just got a really funky black light poster in there I wanna show you.”

“Oh, wow, that sounds very cool.” Trixie gets Brian’s lip between his teeth and bites. Brian hisses, then pushes away and turns off the TV. The room goes quiet. Trixie can hear himself panting hard. Brian takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom.

It’s dark. Yellowish light from a street lamp pours in through a window. Brian’s eyes flash green. Trixie lowers himself down onto the bed. Brian opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it again. He’s got a funny smile on his face, thoughtful and pleased. He chuckles. Trixie does, too. 

“What?” he asks. Brian shakes his head, steps closer, standing between Trixie’s spread knees. 

“Nothing, no, it’s -“ He moves a hand between them, indicating the small space between their chests. “Do you - can you...it’s like - no, I’m sorry, I don’t know.” He laughs sharply. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

A different version of Trixie might say, yes, I do. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it, too. 

This version of Trixie snatches Brian’s palm out of the air and sucks two of his fingers all the way to the back of his throat. 

Brian’s breath punches out. “Okay, bitch,” he says, grinning. Then he throws him down onto his back and melts over him, and there’s not much talking after that.

\---

“You mind if I smoke?” Brian asks after, shooting out the arm that isn’t trapped under Trixie to grope around on his nightstand for a cigarette. Trixie wrinkles his nose. 

“I mean, it’s your house,” he mumbles into Brian’s neck.

Brian gently rolls him over. “I’ll open a window,” he says as he slips out of the bed. 

“I didn’t know yoga teachers were allowed to smoke.” Trixie watches Brian wrench the window open and light up. He’s silhouetted in the glow from the streetlight, bare shoulders lit gold and softened with smoke. It’d be kind of sexy if it weren’t so disgusting.

“Listen, I contain multitudes,” says Brian with a smile. 

Trixie fishes around on the floor for his underwear and wriggles back into them. “Oh, honey, not me. I just contain multi-dudes,” he quips. Brian chokes on a lungful of smoke and goes down like he’s been KO’d. Trixie goes in for the finishing move - “Honey, and my phone? Multi- _nudes,_ honey.”

“You better stop -“ Brian drops his cigarette on the sill and pounces on Trixie, making him scream with laughter. 

“Get off me! You smell like death,” he squeals, trying to free himself. “Why are you so _strong?!”_

“Don’t fear the reaper, Diane,” Brian croaks, and then he sticks his tongue in Trixie’s ear. Trixie shrieks and jerks away, tucking and rolling to his feet beside the bed. He plasters himself against the wall, giggling madly. Brian retreats to the window and finishes his cigarette, grinning at him like a ghoul. 

“You’re repulsive,” Trixie says. 

“I’m a swamp thing,” Brian agrees. “And you still let me stick it in!”

“You’re the creature from the black lagoon, and I’ve got no self-respect,” Trixie says cheerfully. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Brian wheezes. “Okay. Bathroom break. Don’t go anywhere, promise?”

Trixie crosses his heart. Brian turns and dips into the adjoining bathroom, leaving Trixie alone in the lamplight, the smell of smoke fading into the air.

He wanders back out to the living room, digs his phone out of the pocket of his abandoned shorts. He pokes around the bedroom a little. Just to make sure he’s not about to be Dahmer’d. It’s messy but curated, less hoarder’s den than curio shop. The walls are scattered with what look like Soviet-era postcards, and there’s a single picture in a frame: a drawing of a striking blond woman posing under some Cyrillic lettering. On the dresser, along with crumpled cigarette cartons and an accordion of condoms, there are crystals and little animal bones and a Russian nesting doll and, alluringly, a beautiful stack of tarot cards. Trixie picks a few up and starts rifling through them, admiring the shadowy watercolors. He starts imagining a stark monochrome paint to match - black lips, storm clouds for cheekbones, a flash of white stardust around the eyes. 

“Aren’t they fucking stunning? I love that deck,” Brian says from the doorway. Trixie startles, and then laughs at himself for startling. 

“What does that say?” he asks, nodding at the blond lady.

Brian unleashes a quick blast of language, pitching his voice down like a full octave. It’s like he’s been briefly possessed by Stalin. Trixie stares. “Are you Russian?!”

“No,” Brian says cheerfully, and doesn’t elaborate. “You want a reading?” He nods down at Trixie’s hands. He’d forgotten all about the cards. 

Despite the conversational whiplash, he’s curious enough to drop it. “You know how?” He holds out the cards for Brian to take. “Tell my future.”

Brian leans in for a kiss. He’s brushed his teeth, erasing any evidence of the cigarette. Pleased, Trixie slips him a little tongue, and Brian groans and pulls him closer. 

Kissing him is so good it aches. Brian’s mouth is hungry, grateful. It makes _sense._ Trixie gives himself over to it. He kind of feels like he could go again, wrapped up in Brian's arms, feeling the stupor from the first round starting to fade away. When they finally pull apart, Brian holds up the cards before Trixie’s eyes, shakes them for emphasis. “I’m an amateur,” he warns. He settles on the bed and pats the space opposite him. “Here, spread ‘em and pick one. And, like, really think about what you want to know.” 

Trixie sits, fans the deck out between them. He looks at Brian, who just gives him his moony smile and waits. 

He picks one carefully from the middle of the deck and slaps it down. “Huh!” Brian exclaims. 

“What?” Trixie peers at it: the Fool, grinning, footsteps from death-dropping off a damn cliff.

“Well, you know, as I said, I’m no expert,” Brian says, waving his hands dismissively. “But this card indicates the presence of a charismatic stranger... who’d really like to spend the next hour eating your ass.”

Trixie swallows. “Oh, wow,” he says. “He sounds great. Can you give him my number? Tell him I’m at this weirdo’s house and would really love a distraction from his horrible sense of humor and his smoker’s breath and his one-track mind -”

“I can distract you,” Brian says, giggling, “from myself.”

“Oh my god, get out of my sight,” Trixie mumbles, climbing into Brian’s lap to take him up on every second of his offer. 

\---

Trixie doesn’t mean to stay the night, but after the second round he’s out like he’s taken a tranq dart straight to the jugular. He wakes up naked in mild sunlight, a puddle of drool, a thrown doll’s splay. Brian’s gone. Trixie gropes for his phone on instinct and then sees Brian’s plugged it in for him across the room. 

He stretches, languorous and fucked-out. His body hurts in a way he likes, something he can carry for the rest of the day. He slowly pushes himself up on his arms and sees a coffee mug on the bedside table. A skinny wisp of steam twirls out of the top. There’s a note under it, scrawled in sharpie on a Whole Foods receipt. Trixie carefully grabs the coffee and reads. 

_Trudy Mandrill:  
I had to go to the studio. U looked so cute in your sleep I couldn’t even bring myself to drink your blood & harvest your bones for my collection :(_

“Psycho bitch,” Trixie whispers, grinning. 

_Enjoy some fine coffee. And please don’t rob me ok?_

Trixie snorts and gets out of the bed. He makes some effort to make it, to at least, like, toss the corner of the blanket sloppily toward the far pillow. 

He drinks the coffee, which is light and sweet. He pictures Brian preparing it for him and goes warm all over. Stupid. He puts on yesterday’s clothes and calls himself a Lyft, trying to tidy up his mess while he waits. He empties their ciders into the kitchen sink - Brian’s is completely untouched, he notices, so big strike-out there - and throws the bottles in what looks like the recycling bin. 

_I cannot imagine how you live your life if you have to specifically ask your hookups not to steal your shit,_ he texts as his car arrives. 

He knows Brian’s at work, so his immediate reply is a pleasant surprise. _you’re not really my usual type trinsty._

Warmth floods his face. He remembers Brian with his hand between their hearts, tracing the invisible weave of - whatever this thing is, whatever they were feeling. _well joke’s on you, honey, i took everything,_ he writes. 

_it’s all trash anyway, just like me,_ Brian responds. _you can have it all, if that’s what you’re into._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally feedback is the rap music coursing through my veins.


	3. conquerors at the daybreak

“He’s nobody,” Trixie says, the next time Bob starts hassling him about the guy he’s always texting, about the way he’ll burst out laughing at random when he checks his phone, about the hour-long phone calls like it’s the fucking 90s and he’s hogging the landline. Or else he’ll say, “It’s your mom’s new boyfriend,” or “It’s Kellyanne Conway,” or sometimes he’ll flat-out lie and say he’s just talking to Kim or Thorgy or some other mutual friend. He doesn’t want to get into it, talk it to death, give himself the chance to overthink. He doesn’t even let himself save Brian’s number until the third time he stays over. (This one’s not an accident. He starts rolling to the edge of the bed to put his clothes back on and Brian throws a leg over him. “You can’t go,” he says seriously. “I get night terrors. Someone’s gotta make sure I don’t leap out of bed, and, you know, hurl myself naked into traffic.”

“You’re such a liar,” Trixie mutters as he closes his eyes. 

“Oh, totally,” Brian agrees, cuddling him close.)

It feels good. It’s whatever. They get ice cream, go thrifting, start hikes they don’t finish when Trixie gets hungry and over it, walk out of movies halfway through when Brian’s attention span runs out. Trixie doesn’t go to Brian’s yoga classes anymore, though - not after last time, when he spent half the class in child’s pose trying to recover from another series of truly sadistic adjustments. Better to save that shit for the bedroom, where he can give it back as good as he gets. If those poor yoga moms had any idea what was going on in the back left corner of the room - Trixie shudders to think of the Yelp reviews. 

Brian shows up at Sephora, endearing himself to all the girls Trixie works with by pretending to be really curious about the latest innovations in long-wear lip color. “Excuse me, young man,” he calls to Trixie in a ridiculous croak, waving him over to the Lancôme endcap, “can you assist me? I need a beguiling palette for my beloved grand-mére. She’s just died in a tragic house fire, and I’m looking for some subtle tones to cover the worst of the burned flesh before the open casket -”

“I will literally call security on you,” Trixie hisses, grabbing Brian’s arm hard, sending him careening toward the Anastasia Beverly Hills gasping with laughter. 

They kiss in public places, in direct sunlight, like a pair of straights. They fuck like the world’s ending. Brian looks at him like he can hardly believe his luck, as if Trixie’s the one fully slumming it, the one with the perfect body and the clock-stopping blue eyes. He’s usually pretty lazy in the sack, but with Brian, he suddenly likes being on top, likes to see Brian watching him move, his expression somewhere between prayerful and starving to death. 

Brian fucks like he _likes_ him. Like, what is that?

One Thursday, Trixie’s hosting at Collective, and mama, the party? She is _turning_ it. The fantasy? She’s _feeling_ it. It’s the rare electric night where she can do no wrong, where every joke lands and every 8-count stops the show. They can’t tip her enough. She’s balls-deep in one of her favorite mixes, bubblegum pop and _Jawbreaker_ and a couple infomercials all cobbled together with the instant, sugary tang of nostalgia. It always goes over well, but tonight it’s killing. She’s _killing_. As she twirls, her blond curls arc around her, half-alive themselves, glowing sunny pink when they catch the stage lights. She’s _stunning._

When the dance break hits, she usually prances around coyly collecting cash, but tonight she stomps off the stage and straight into the screaming audience, drops to her knees on the filthy floor and opens her mouth. They _love_ it, these sickos, her people. They drown her in a shower of money. 

She’s clambering back up, a little unsteadily in her pleasers, and they’re _still_ trying to give her coin. She grabs one outstretched hand, half to snatch a bill and half for balance, and finds her fingers gripped tight. The guy pulls her to her feet with ease. She catches his eyes as she looms over him, and her brain suddenly goes blank. 

Of course it’s Brian, laughing wildly, pressing a twenty into her palm. Trixie stares at it, at him, for a full second before he yells, “ _Go,_ bitch!” - barely audible over the thunder of her track - and withdraws his hand. 

Trixie’s lips are moving; she’s back in it, working her way back onto the stage for her final pose, but her pulse is hammering in her ears, louder than the music. They’re losing their minds out there, eating her up with a fucking spoon. She takes the biggest breath her cincher will allow, and gets her mind back in place. 

“Oh, wow, thank you,” she pants into the mic. “You guys liked that one? I learned it at church camp.” She hears Brian’s shriek over the crowd like it’s been amplified, and the sound brings her such abrupt, complete pleasure that she laughs, too, shrill and elated. “Just one of the spirituals of my people,” she goes on. “It’s our Cum-baya. I’m pretty sure that’s how you say it, right?” 

Brian’s cackling with his head back - now that she’s noticed him, that freakishly white grill is all she can see. Her heart squeezes corset-tight. She says, “All right, guys, we’re gonna take a quick break and I’ll see you all soon. Go say hi to Matthew at the bar. By which I mean, ‘tip.’ He’s so hot, it’s the only way he’ll ever pay attention to any of you. Okay, bye!”

The DJ blacks her out and she dashes backstage to grab her cocktail, downs it in one long gulp. Her pulse is racing - adrenaline, joy, terror. “Easy, girl,” she mumbles to herself. It’s loud out there, but back here, wending her way through the cramped labyrinth of the bar’s guts to the green room, it’s quiet enough to hear her lashes whispering against her cheeks on each blink. 

It’s not the worst setup on the strip. She’s got a good mirror, at least, and there’s air conditioning. She strips down to her padding and slips into her second look, all lace and ruffles and bows. She looks like an all-female reboot of _Child’s Play,_ cute and menacing and possibly lethal. 

She arches and cranes, trying to wrestle her zipper all the way up without destroying the delicate fabric. Easy, girl, easy. 

“You need a hand with that, ma’am?” _Oh, god._

Trixie whirls to find Brian hovering in the doorway of the green room, smiling giddily. He looks like a roadie, tatted arms emerging from a black t-shirt, fitted cap on his head. He looks _good._ Trixie splutters. 

“Excuse me, this is a performers-only space,” she exclaims. “How the hell did you get back here?”

“Showed the doorman my titties,” Brian says lightly. He takes a step closer. “Jesus, Tracy, you’re _incredible,_ you dumb bitch. Just _look_ at you.”

“I’d rather not,” she says. Her voice is quivering with the start of a nervous giggle. “Oh my god, I’d rather _you_ didn’t. You’ve got to get out of here, I’m all -“ She flutters her hands. She’s got nothing. She clenches her fists in her nightie so she’ll stop waving them around like an idiot. 

“I can go,” Brian says at once. “I don’t wanna mess with your mojo. Which is _serious,_ by the way. They’re all shitting their pants over you.” He moves back toward the door, starting for the hall. “I just wanted to say hi. I’ll see you out there!”

“Wait,” she calls. He does. 

She turns her back to him, scooping her curls over one shoulder. “You any good with a hook and eye?” 

On the wall in front of her, his shadow gets a little bigger. “Hooking actually happens to be a specialty of mine,” he says. 

"Shut up," Trixie snorts. She bends a little at the knee, accommodating their sudden height discrepancy. 

“That’s a pretty lazy _uktatasana,_ ” Brian teases as he takes the back of her dress in his fingers and fidgets with the clasp. “You really should let me work on you more.” His voice, so close on her neck, breaks a wave of shivers down her spine. She feels like a _girl._ Prom-ready in pink, baiting the boy she likes with a strip of skin. She’s queasy. As long as she keeps her face turned, the illusion stays firmly in place.

“This isn’t weird for you?” she blurts.

Brian sucks his teeth. The clasp clicks into place. “Why would this be weird?” 

“Uh, for approximately one million reasons, I mean - this is - _I_ wouldn’t date a drag queen, like - ” She stops herself. A second too late. “Oh, my god,” she mutters under her breath.

“So, we’re dating now?” Brian asks. She can _hear_ his shit-eating grin. “Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Shut _up,_ you carnie,” she snaps, turning to face him. Brian convulses with laughter. “Look at _you,_ in your butch ensemble, you look like _Honey I Shrunk the Bouncer Outside Mickey’s_ -” 

Brian wheezes. Then he grabs both of Trixie’s gloved hands and squeezes her fingers, locking his eyes onto hers. Trixie’s read dies in her mouth. Brian’s hands travel up her arms, graze her shoulders, trace down her spine to her sculpted waist. He touches her with the kind of care Trixie usually associates with glass figurines, precious gems, other people’s musical instruments. 

“I would date a queen,” he says, smiling, “if that queen were you, specifically.” Trixie feels herself flush under her paint, a fire buried underground. Brian takes a ringlet between two fingers. “This shit looks so _expensive,_ ” he marvels. “Go back out there and kill those fuckers dead.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she says seriously, trying not to smile.

But she does it anyway, radioactive under the lights, glowing through her skin. 

—-

“At least tell me his name,” Bob says, a while later. “So I know he’s real and you haven’t just, like, developed a serious drug problem you’re trying to hide.”

Trixie braces himself. “It’s Brian,” he says, getting very invested in his pad see-ew. 

Bob, an understated woman of restraint and great composure, yells, “You narcissistic bitch!” and dissolves into laughter. 

“He’s nothing like me,” Trixie says loudly. 

“I can’t believe you got a _boyfriend twin,_ ” Bob hoots. “Actually, this is totally on-brand for you, I can _fully_ believe it.”

“He’s not my boyfriend twin!” Trixie rubs his temples, exhausted by being alive in proximity to Bob the Fucking Drag Queen at this juncture. 

“Just tell me, is he a bald white twink with a guitar?” Bob asks, dabbing at his eyes. 

“No.” Trixie spools a noodle around one chopstick. “He doesn’t play the guitar,” he mutters, setting Bob off all over again. Trixie scrolls through Instagram while he waits for him to stop howling. (Brian doesn’t have an account, further proof that he is in fact a thousand-year-old serial killer. Helena Markos, indeed. He gets that reference now, bitch.)

When he finally catches his breath, Bob says, “Oh, shit, before I forget,” and taps something into his phone. Trixie’s vibrates.

“Oh my god,” he says. He’s got a Venmo notification from Bob, a four-digit amount. “What the hell is this? I mean, I’m obviously flattered, but I’m saving myself for marriage -”

“Please, as if that pasty space heater you call an ass is worth this kind of money,” scoffs Bob. Trixie opens his mouth, feigning deep offense. Bob leans across the table and takes his hand. Bob isn’t into touch. It’s why he and Trixie get along so well. Trixie starts back, nervous suddenly. “Listen,” Bob says, looking at him over the top of his glasses, “I’m gonna go away for a little while. This is for rent and utilities. Okay?”

Trixie sits up straighter. “What’s wrong?” He demands. Bob says nothing. Then a smile starts spreading over his face. 

“It’s for work,” he says slowly. “It’s a _work_ trip.” Now he’s beaming. 

Trixie doesn’t get it, and then all at once he does. He shrieks, leaping out of his chair. “No fucking way. You got on the show?” he yelps. _“BITCH!”_ He rounds the table and pulls Bob into a tight hug. Bob is laughing as he extricates himself, squeezing Trixie’s waist once for emphasis. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he says, in a voice that says the opposite. “Nobody even watches it.”

“But you’ll meet _Rupaul,_ ” Trixie practically squeals. “Drag Jesus! And it’s _twenty-five grand!”_

“That’s if you win,” Bob points out.

“You’re going to win,” Trixie says seriously. 

Bob squeezes tighter. “I know.”

Trixie’s mind is spinning through scenarios, calculations, what’s about to change, what’s going to stay the same. He pushes it all away. “Who else?” he asks. “Do you know?”

“Not everyone. A few girls from back in New York,” Bob says in a low voice. He jerks his head, indicating the past, all his ancient history. “Some queens I’ve never heard of. And...some locals. Naomi.”

Trixie snorts. “Of course, that thin whore.”

“And Kim,” Bob says. 

Trixie feels his own smile flicker out for a second. Kim. But… “She didn’t tell me,” he says.

“She’s gonna, girl, calm down,” Bob says, though he doesn’t roll his eyes like he normally might. “We’re not allowed to tell.”

Trixie feels the _we,_ feels the door of it, himself on the other side with his ear pressed. Bob says, in the gentlest voice Trixie’s ever heard come out of his mouth, “You know, Trix, if you’d auditioned -”

“Stop.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t. I’m not -” He’s not a million things. Not prepared, not polished, not ready for prime-time. 

“When you _are,_ ” Bob says pointedly, “you’ll have a famous television personality or two who’s ready to vouch for you.”

Trixie snorts. Then he throws his arms around Bob and hugs him again. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously.”

“Yeah, well.” Bob hugs back, then pulls away, rebalancing the air in the room. “You’ve got another month to keep telling me how spectacular and gorgeous I am. I’m gonna host a big show at The Cove right before I go. Bring a number or two. I’ve got a slot for you, if you want.”

“Honey, I’m always looking for a slot, honey,” Trixie drawls automatically. Bob raises an eyebrow. Wrong crowd; that bit doesn’t slay anybody as hard as it does Brian.

“You should bring your boyfriend twin, speaking of slots,” Bob says, right on cue. “Unless you’re scared I’m gonna steal him away.”

“Yeah, Jolene, that’s what it is,” Trixie deadpans. “Mostly I’m concerned you’d do it by mistake, like you’d reach for something across the way and just scoop him up with those giant man-hands without even realizing.” 

“You know, Trixie Mattel, most men wouldn’t brag about their small hands.” Bob snags a spring roll off Trixie’s plate and takes a meaningful chomp. “But maybe that’s what your mystery Brian likes.”

Trixie chuckles a little. He does like Trixie’s hands, as a matter of fact, but Trixie’s not about to get into it with Bob. He imagines introducing Brian to all the girls; feels a little flare of warmth in his chest at the thought. Why is he being so secretive, anyway? He knows Brian and Bob will hit it off instantly, and Kim, too. And he doesn’t have a huge career opportunity coming up; he might as well at least show off the hot guy he’s fucking. 

“This is going to be so good for you,” he tells Bob. Bob raises an eyebrow, shakes his head, half-laughs. Trixie pulls off Bob’s glasses, polishes the lenses with his t-shirt, then places them back on his face. Bob scrunches his nose up. His poker face drops for a second, a flicker of genuine emotion coming through. Trixie’s will not. 

“I’m so happy for you,” he says again. If he keeps repeating it, the true part, he can keep the seasickness, that queasy ache of terror and jealousy, at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so when I wrote this I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA that there was in fact video on the internet of an out-of-drag Katya tipping Trixie at one of her shows. you guys. if you haven't seen it. it's SO MUCH BETTER than anything i could ever write. stop what you're doing and go watch it. Then come back here and leave me a comment, because they're how I survive.  
> Also, google "boyfriend twins" if you're not already familiar. you'll thank and also curse me later!
> 
> Feedback is the only surefire way to disengage your temporomandibular joint!


	4. all the phantom minor notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick heads up: this one contains references to past trauma/abuse. they are fairly oblique and non-explicit.

They usually hook up at Brian’s, but Trixie finally invites him over on a night when he knows they’ll be alone. Brian’s like a kid at the zoo, cooing over Trixie and Bob’s drag room and running his fingers over all Trixie’s brushes and lipsticks. And while Trixie obviously appreciates his eye for aesthetics, he steers him away, distracting his little parakeet brain with a series of increasingly serious kisses. Brian gives, wrapping himself around Trixie and letting himself be walked back blind into the bedroom. “How was work?” Trixie asks between breaths, pulling Brian’s shirt over his head and chucking it across the room, where it lands in a pile of pads with a satisfying _fwump._

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” Brian groans. “Like how much I want you to suck my - oh my _gawd!_ ” He darts across the room to where Trixie’s pink guitar is hanging neatly on the wall, arms outstretched. Reflexively, Trixie blurts, “Be careful, you maniac.”

Brian whirls, mouth open in shock. “Who do you think I am, fucking Axl Rose?” he laughs. “I’m not going to hurt your guitar, Patricia. I’ll save that for our nasty break-up.” He takes it gingerly off its hook on the wall and puts it on the bed between them. “Play me something.”

“Right now?” Trixie suppresses a grin. “Seriously? What about me sucking your dick?”

“That wasn’t even what I was going to say,” Brian says primly. “Get your filthy mind out of the gutter, young lady.”

“You don’t even like guitar music,” Trixie points out, but he’s already tuning up. His hands are steady, even as his pulse ticks up. Brian’s seen him in face, seen him first thing in the morning, seen him naked, but he’s never seen him this bare. 

“I’ve never said that. Sure I do,” Brian says. 

Over time, Trixie’s come to think of Brian’s constant lies and contradictions as their own kind of drag, a shiny garment he drapes around himself to catch the light. Trixie points a manicured finger at her own lips during a number, sometimes, underlining her accuracy, her perfect recall. Like the words are hers. But how does that song go, the one Brian loves? _What you see, isn’t always the truth._ Brian’s watching him, smiling sweetly, sitting with his legs criss-cross applesauce on Trixie’s bed. 

Trixie plays a few chords like he’s gonna do some Lana Del Rey, make Brian squeal and writhe with joy, but then the spirit moves him and he finds himself playing one of his own. 

It’s sad, pretty, something he finger-picked out in press-ons on a bender during his last breakup, the really bad one. Poor Bob heard it a billion times before finally grabbing Trixie by the unwashed tank top, droning, “Baby, I love you, but the next time you play that song I’m gonna tell the landlord you’re keeping a bunch of illegal wildlife in your closet, got it?” 

Now, with a little distance on it, he just plays it because it’s short and easy and he never screws up the lyrics. He sings softly, not trying to show off, showing off just a little. 

When he finishes, he looks up and finds Brian’s expression twisted up, face wet with tears. 

“Oh - no, hey, no,” Trixie says, flummoxed, inexplicably embarrassed. 

“Shut up,” Brian chokes out, swiping at his eyes. “ _Fuck,_ Trixie.”

“Don’t _cry,_ ” Trixie exclaims. A nervous laugh flutters under his Adam’s apple, threatens to erupt out. He puts his guitar aside and crawls closer. “You giant baby. Stop.”

Brian grabs his wrists, hard. _“Ow,”_ Trixie yelps, jerking away. Brian loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. 

“You have something special,” he says in a low, serious voice. “You have to use it, okay?”

“Oh my god. _Okay,_ ” Trixie half-laughs, wrenching his hands free. Brian’s not even smiling. 

“You are not some fucking club queen,” he says. “You’re not some dime-a-dozen bitch. You’re something else. You should be playing your music for people.”

“Dime-a-dozen?” Trixie repeats. He sits back on his heels. “That’s what you think of my drag?”

“No, no, don’t you twist my shit up, Mary,” Brian says, raising his hands. “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Maybe I like being a club queen,” Trixie says. He feels his face getting hot, steam on the back of his neck. “You know, like, it’s hard work, and I’m actually pretty good at it.”

“No, hang on, don’t get sensitive with me.” Brian leans in, bracing his hands against Trixie’s knees. Trixie swats at him, pushes him off. Brian won’t stay back, grasping at Trixie’s thighs with his long fingers. “Tracy,” he says, a little quieter, “that’s not what I’m saying.”

“No, I get it, but like, you don’t actually _know_ what you’re saying,” Trixie says. The thoughts tumble out faster than he can get out in front of them, spin-less, unvarnished. Bob and Kim and Naomi are running off to seek their fame and fortune, and here he is, some bumpkin in clown paint kidding himself about surviving this, let alone making a living off it - “Like, I’m sorry, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe it looks easy from the audience, maybe it just looks like playing dress-up to you, but it’s hard work. It _hurts._ And those audiences are ready to hate you. They want you to fail. It’s not like teaching a yoga class, where everybody’s nice to you just because you’re flexible and you know a little Sanskrit, or whatever. They don’t wanna hear my music, they want to hear Madonna and Britney and if they’re going to laugh at me, I want to be the one telling the jokes, okay?”

“I get that, honey, I actually,” Brian starts to say. 

Trixie’s voice slices out sharp and final. “No, you _don’t._ ”

He sees something snap shut in Brian’s expression, like Trixie’s tripped an invisible wire. He’s seen it a few times, a flicker of shadow crossing over his face, a tiny cloud blotting out the sun for half a second. And then it’s gone, and Brian just says evenly, “Alright, I don’t.”

He blows out a breath. Brian’s eyes are down, focused somewhere else. Trixie puts his hands over his, still clinging to his own knees. He inhales again, slowly, and when he lets it out he feels calmer, deeply sorry.

“I don’t want to give away that much of me,” he says quietly. “If I played my music and people hated it, it’d, like - I wouldn’t come back from that. I’d throw myself off the roof, or something. I’d quit.”

Brian grabs Trixie’s index finger and gives it a double squeeze. _Honk, honk._ “You’d be surprised what you can come back from, mama,” he murmurs. “And besides, who could hate you?” He’s still looking down at their hands, but the corners of his lips are starting to turn up. “You’re a huge fucking rancid cunt, but -”

Trixie scream-laughs, relieved, and then Brian does, too. He falls back on the bed, pulling Trixie down clumsily on top of him, which just makes them both laugh harder.

“Was that our first fight?” Brian asks eagerly. “Did we do it? Did we survive our first fight?”

He locks his legs around Trixie’s waist. The tension is draining out of Trixie’s shoulders, pooling deeper in his body, reworking itself. Brian arches up, dragging their hips together. Trixie’s vision glitters. “I don’t think we’ll know for sure until we try having make-up sex,” he points out breathlessly.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Brian agrees, and leans up for a kiss. “I think there was a thing earlier that you offered to do, but I can’t quite - you know how my memory is - ”

“Yeah, at your age,” Trixie says with a sage nod. Brian’s laugh reverberates through his whole body. Trixie feels it in his guts. “And I’m pretty sure you asked me, but.”

He opens Brian’s mouth with his own, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Brian’s shorts and starts easing them down and off. Brian makes a soft sound almost like a question. Trixie answers it the only way he knows how, with his tongue and his teeth, only breaking away for a second to pull his own shirt off before draping himself over Brian again. 

“God, I am just - I wanna _wreck_ you,” Brian hisses, digging his nails into Trixie’s back.

Trixie half-laughs. “I mean, you’re welcome to try,” he offers with a shrug, and then he slips down the bed to suck him into his mouth, slow and sincere as a ballad. 

\---

When it finally hits him, a couple weeks later, it’s all at once. 

Usually when he stays over at Brian’s, he’ll wake in the morning to an empty bed and a cup of coffee and a dumb little note:  
_Dear ms mardell, had to go torture the athleta crowd, see you later??_  
_Out harvesting virgin souls for all hallows eve, don’t wait up_  
_txt me a pic of your ass when you wake up i need it for research! I am a SCIENTIST. Xx_

Today, he jerks awake before the sun and bolts upright. Some remnant of a nightmare licks a queasy line up the back of his neck, something violent and rough-fingered that retreats to the room’s dark corners when he opens his eyes, looms there and waits for him. Trixie counts the postcards on the wall, wraps a loose thread from the comforter around one finger, tethers himself stubbornly to reality, against the pointless hammering of his heart. 

Brian stirs, half-rising on one arm. “What’s wrong,” he murmurs, scooting closer to gather Trixie close. 

“Nothing,” Trixie whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“C’mere.” Brian opens his mouth against Trixie’s shoulder and nibbles. Trixie wriggles, snorting with quiet laughter. “I got you.” His voice is sweet, sleep-rough. “You’re fine.”

“Yes, bitch, I know,” Trixie insists. “Don’t be weird.” But he lets Brian guide him back down onto his pillow, taking a steadying breath. 

Brian bites again, gently, eyes still shut. “Just you and me here.” The air feels violet, supernatural, charged. Brian says, “He’s gone.”

Trixie’s throat knots up. He nods. “I know,” he breathes.

He’s fine. Who doesn’t have a bogeyman or two in their closet, hidden behind their slips and mini-dresses? By the time the sun rises, it’ll be long vanished, laughable. He doesn’t talk about it; not seriously, not in ways he thought were audible. Apparently Brian’s ears are pretty sharp. _Hear that, fucker?_ Trixie thinks at the shape lingering near the dresser. _He says you’re gone._

“No more bad dreams,” Brian mumbles, then splays a hand over Trixie’s and knocks out again. Trixie feels him go boneless, recognizes the steady pattern of his breathing, the little smoker’s wheeze on every inhale. 

He raises one of Brian’s limp arms off his chest and runs his fingers over his ink, tracing the forms while he waits for his eyes to stop prickling. Only when Brian’s deeply asleep like this are his tattoos still enough to be inspected, but they still raise more questions than answers. Saints and insects, headless martyrs and kitty cats. Trixie connects the dots between them, guessing about a religious upbringing, beloved pets lost, gods abandoned. 

Probably says more about Trixie than Brian. Whenever he asks Brian about them, about anything he owns, anything in his past, even about something as benign as his nesting doll or the drawing of the blond woman on the wall, he gets a joke answer. _They’re prison tattoos. I grew up feral and penniless on the streets of Moscow, turning tricks to survive. Oh, her? She’s my sister. I killed her in the womb, thank god, she was a real cunt._

It doesn’t matter. Brian can weave whatever fantasy he wants. Trixie knows how he breathes when he’s asleep, knows his sizes in European and American measurements, knows his references, knows how to make him laugh. And Brian knows all his history, his poltergeists, knows how to banish them with a soft word. 

He knows him so well. 

Oh, _God._

It’s like the warm amber tone of Brian’s singing bowl, a vibration that starts his ears, then reaches his chest, then blooms out into his limbs.

Brian makes a sound almost like a giggle and pulls his arm free, folding it back into his chest. He hums and nuzzles into Trixie’s neck. It should be too close. He should want to shove him away. He doesn’t, at all. 

What he wants is to shake Brian awake suddenly, Christmas morning-style. _Hey, idiot, I’m in love with you._ The simple fact of it feels hot under his skin, a gospel aching for a good street preach. How many people has he let destroy him who could never, couldn’t _dream_ of sharing closeness like this? _How's this for a plot twist? My heart’s not cold and dead! It loves your heart. Is that not the_ gayest _shit you’ve ever heard?_

His breath skips. He bumps his chin against Brian’s forehead. “Brian,” he whispers.

“Donttouchme,” Brian mumbles, pulling Trixie in closer.

“Hey. _Hey._ ” Trixie grabs Brian’s ear between his teeth and tugs lightly. Brian shifts.

 _“What,”_ he groans. His eyes open weakly and find him. “What’s wrong, girl, tell me.” 

“Nothing’s wrong, I.” It’s still dark out, but the sky through the curtain is getting lighter. “Sorry, I just.” 

Brian hoists himself up on one elbow and focuses on Trixie. He should be pissed at being woken up like this. He isn’t. “Go ahead,” he says. 

“I…” _Love you. Just realized. Had to tell you or else I’d fucking asphyxiate._ Trixie looks into his pale, sleepy eyes and completely loses his nerve. 

“I, I have a show coming up next week,” he stammers. “My friend Bob is hosting. I think - um, I think you’re right, I’m gonna try and play some of my music.”

“Well, I think that’s fabulous, honey.” Brian drops back down onto his pillow, letting out a long, relaxed breath. Trixie un-grits his teeth. 

“Yeah, you should come,” he says. “I want - I want you to meet my friends.”

“Mm,” Brian agrees. “But Trixie, they might not like me, though.” 

“Well, _I_ don’t like you, you’re awful,” Trixie chuckles, but if Brian hears him, he doesn’t respond, slipping away into sleep again. Trixie little-spoons against him, trying to slow his pulse down, making a setlist, making plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Trixie is probably playing “I Know You All over Again,” mostly because Katya’s said he likes that one & it makes him cry. but if you were imagining another Classic Trixie Mattel Bummer™️ instead, you are also probably right!
> 
> feedback is so loved and appreciated!


	5. think of all the cold we're braving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up: this one contains a section that might read as a panic attack, including a brief ptsd flashback. my personal assessment is that it's non-gratuitous, but of course your mileage may vary, and please proceed with caution if that stuff is sensitive for you.

Trixie doesn’t get nervous when she performs anymore. Like, for _what_? That she’ll forget her words? On a good night, the audience only half-notices. She’s nosedived right off stages before and gotten back up to make more money. And hers is not a friendly beat; she draws her mouth wry and grinless, wields that contour like a pair of knives held at eye-level. She’s a hundred feet tall in her heels. She’s glamour Godzilla. Who’s gonna come for a drag queen? Who’d even dare?

“I thought you said they were your friends,” Brian had said in the cab over to the venue, playing with the hem of Trixie’s dress. His knuckles were brushing over her thighs, sensation muted through layers of hosiery. Her nervousness was, like, _visibly_ contagious; Brian’s foot had been jiggling, his hands and eyes wandering all over. “They’ll get out there and yes-gawd-boots-the-house-down, mama. They’re gonna love it. Everyone will.”

“ _Some_ of them are my friends. And you don’t know drag queens.” She hadn’t been able to look at him, couldn't stand the thought of touching him with her sweaty palms. She’s been working on this look for a straight week, sewing and embellishing, making it a vision in satin and fringe. Long sleeves, glossy pearl buttons, all white and baby pink: a country chanteuse glimpsed in a funhouse mirror. Her waist is cinched so tight, she’d be gasping even if she weren’t so shaken. It’s a completely different look than the other girls are used to seeing from her. She shouldn’t give a fuck what they think. But - 

“Oh my god, it’s _Trixie,_ ” says Fame, her perfect mouth dropping open as Trixie steps into the dressing room, which is a loud mess of sequins and spandex and too many bitches crowded around not enough mirrors. Only Bob would think booking this many girls in a venue this small would be a fun kiki rather than a fucking rhinestone-studded nightmare. “I didn’t even recognize you, girl, did you - do you have a _guitar_?”

“C’mon, redneck fish,” says Naomi, glancing up from her compact and then going right back to glossing her lips. 

Kim’s beside her now, a total relief. She’s disguised tonight as a gorgeous grey and lavender cloud, somehow the softest and most commanding presence in the room simultaneously. “Ooh, I love this,” she says quietly, running her fingers over the fringe on Trixie’s sleeve. “You make this whole look?”

Trixie gestures, _-ish._ “I did some of it.” She’d agonized over every inch of the damn thing, until her hands cramped and her eyes crossed. 

“You look kinda sick,” Kim observes wisely, a true legend of tact and perceptiveness.

Trixie shakes her head. “Just dizzy. Looking at you in this getup is giving me vertigo.” Her gaze keeps going to the door, senselessly. 

“You can come backstage,” she had said, tugging on Brian’s hand as they reached the venue. “I want you to meet the girls. If you want to. You can keep me from puking my nerves all over these shiny new boots.”

He’d pulled his hand free, kind of sharply, but then grabbed her waist and given her a brief, tight hug. “No, no, listen, I’ll see you after. I don’t wanna be a bother to you and the other girls,” he’d said quickly, smoothing his hands down the sine wave of her body. “I’ll just be distracting. I know how it is before a show.”

“Do you?” Trixie had laughed. “Come on, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. Don’t be weird. Come meet Bob, she’s been such an asshole about you, acting like I’m hiding you away or -”

“Honey,” Brian had said, a little louder, “I shouldn’t.”

Some other version of Trixie might have let it go, waved him off. This one tried again. She’d held up her hands in front of Brian’s face. “Look. They’re fucking shaking. This is so stupid, please, I’m so scared.”

“Don’t be scared, Tracy. You got nothing to be scared about.” He’d taken her hands in his, stilling them, but he hadn’t budged; his feet stayed planted, mouth a firm line. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers all the way, kept glancing off, over her shoulder. “Listen, mama, it’s just that -”

“No, it’s fine,” Trixie interrupted. “I’ve just got to get back there, okay, it’s totally okay. See you after, it’s whatever.” So she leaned in for an air-kiss and turned on her heel to leave him standing out in the humid air of the strip. 

“Hey,” he’d called after her. “Kill them dead! You’re fucking fantastic, bitch. They’re all gonna love you. You got this.”

“Of course I do,” she’d said over her shoulder, managing a shaky little grin. Maybe the paint made it look more convincing. What else was it good for?

Now, through the blood pounding in her ears, she can half-hear Bob introing her onstage. The audience sounds crackling-hot, living for Bob like they always do. Brian’s out there somewhere, shrieking his wide-open laugh. She’s got this. Trixie grips her guitar, ignoring the bemused side-eye Violet’s casting her way. 

“Singing live is a bold choice,” Fame says obliquely. “You’ve just got to, like, _really nail_ every note. I didn’t even know you could sing.”

"Oh, I can't," Trixie says, widening her eyes. "Figured I'd just punch this big violin I found and yell real loud and hope something good happens, you know?"

Fame looks puzzled by this. Trixie brushes past her with a blithe, extremely unconvincing smile. She’s out the door, she’s in the wings, she’s got this. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bob is bellowing onstage, “I love this bitch, you love her, she’s your best friend, and she’s the worst person I’ve ever met - you guys, please give it up for TRIXIE MATTEL!”

She’s got this.

\---

Oh Jesus, fuck, please, please—

—six minutes are an hour, she’s blind in the lights, why did she think - how could she have _thought_ —

— and it’s like, the harder she tries to win them back, the further they drift away, into their phones, into their drinks and conversations and it’s fine except it’s his heart, it’s the inside of him and they can see it and they _know_ it’s all bullshit —

Just hit the lights, she thinks desperately, watching herself from the outside somewhere slowly drowning, just black me out and mercy-kill me before I ruin the whole show—

\---

It’s over. If there’s any applause at all, relieved or tepid or pitying, she doesn’t hear it. She totters off into the dark, shellshocked. She tears off her lashes. Her throat closes. 

Easy, girl, easy. 

She can’t go back, can’t go to the dressing room, can’t face the other girls. She hangs in the hallway between there and the stage, trying to breathe. She can’t lose her cool now. Not gonna. 

How many more blank stares, cold rooms, forty-dollar nights where she barely makes enough for cab fare, before she stops kidding herself? 

How many more shit-eating plummets off a stage, drinks thrown in her face, how many more Instagram comments about her bad paint, her ugly mug?

Easy. 

Crying in drag is so fucking embarrassing. Nothing could be less fierce, less performative. Just a sad fag in a wig, just a - fucking, _stop crying, stop crying you little - or I’ll give you something to really cry about, you stupid fucking -_

“Trixie, oh my god!” Brian’s there, abruptly, incongruous and small beside her. Reality slams back down around them, a dull pain, mundane as a toothache. “What’s wrong? You were fabulous!”

“Stop.” Trixie shakes her head. “Don’t.”

“Trixie.” Brian reaches up for her shoulders, gives them a shake. “If those basic little fuckers out there don’t get what you’re doing, it’s because you’re doing something _right._ You’re smarter than all of them. Who gives a shit what they think?”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” Trixie whispers so her voice doesn’t crack. “You are - literally clueless, you have _no_ idea how it feels to die onstage like that -” 

“Girl. Listen to me.” Brian shakes her again. “Listen, you keep saying - I actually, I’ve been wanting to tell you - “

“Stop, stop it, I need a minute,” Trixie croaks, pushing back. “I could’ve used this - _before,_ when I asked you to come backstage with me, before I fucking self-immolated out there.”

“Mama, I wanted to, but I couldn’t, okay,” Brian says in a low, urgent voice. “I know this is the wrong time, but please, you gotta let me talk, let me try to explain before -”

“Oh my _fucking_ god,” Violet says, popping her head out of the dressing room. Trixie can’t, actually, deal with Violet right now, her tiny waist and her offhand shade. She turns to face her and fumbles behind herself for Brian’s hand, but can’t find it. 

Violet stares at the two of them for a second. Then, she races past Trixie, inhumanly swift in her Louboutins, and throws herself at Brian. “You stupid bitch!” she bellows at him. “You dumb whore!”

“Um,” says Trixie. The air has taken on a bent of dream-logic that has her hoping maybe this is all a stress nightmare before the real show, something she can shake away in the morning light in bed, Brian curled around her like a safety belt.

“Hi, honey,” says Brian, glancing between Trixie and Violet with an expression Trixie’s never seen on him before. He’s shifting from foot to foot, even as his hands curl around Violet’s forearms. His eyes are animal-wide, trapped, almost pleading. He looks _scared._

“Um,” Trixie says again. She takes a breath in, steadies her voice. “Um, you two know each other?”

Violet looks at her like she usually does - like she’s considering calling the police to have Trixie locked away for criminal stupidity. “Do I _know_ Katya?” she asks, and then she doubles over, screaming with hoarse laughter. 

“Trixie,” says Brian quietly. He’s got one hand on Violet’s arm, but the other is reaching for her, fingers extended. 

“This is _Brian,_ ” Trixie says, but Violet doesn’t even seem to hear her. She throws her delicate arms around Brian’s neck and brands him with a kiss, leaving a plum-colored stain on his cheekbone. Brian smiles at her, thin and pale as skim milk. 

“Where the _fuck_ have you been, girl?” Violet demands. “People literally think you _died._ ”

“Sorry, hang on,” Trixie says, taking a step closer. 

“I did, kind of,” Brian says with a weak laugh. He’s trying to disentangle himself from Violet’s embrace, but there’s a familiarity there, there’s a history, that roils Trixie’s stomach, fills her mouth with poison. 

“Sorry,” she says again. “Brian, I -” 

“Excuse me, are you _Brian_ now?” Violet howls. “Bitch, I’m _dead._ ” Trixie’s never seen her this happy. She wants to smack the grin right off her rotten, beautiful face. “You have to come and say hi to the girls! Fame is going to shit herself when she sees you. _Fame!_ ” she yells. “Bitch, it’s Katya!” 

“Katya’s here?” Fame calls back from the next room. Trixie can hear a commotion, a growing wave of interest, through the blood pounding in her ears. She blinks, swallows, stares at Brian. 

“‘Katya?’” Trixie repeats. “Katya, as in -” 

But - not _that_ Katya. 

Violet gasps, looking from Trixie to Brian. “Wait, girl, did you not… does she not _know?_ ” Her mouth splits wide in a leering grin, and then she shrieks, “Hang on, are you _fucking Trixie?_ OH MY _GOD! FAME!_ ” 

“Tracy, I’ve been trying to tell you,” Brian says quietly to Trixie. His jaw is tight. Trixie can practically hear the grind of his teeth. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Trixie stammers, putting her hands up. 

“Katya!” Fame squeals, rushing up to pull Brian into another hug. “How are you?”

“Wait, what the fuck, so, you’re _Katya,_ ” Trixie says, in a very low, controlled voice. "And that didn't feel - like a relevant thing to mention to me?" She feels like fucking Sally Field. _The whole time? THE WHOLE TIME?_

Brian turns to face her. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I’ve been - I _wanted_ to tell you.”

The blond woman on Brian’s bedroom wall. His ease and familiarity with every fucking venue in West Hollywood. He _talks_ like a drag queen, he _speaks Russian,_ how could Trixie be so stupid? 

The little voice that lives behind Trixie’s left ear reminds her helpfully that everyone in this room, everyone in this club, is laughing at her. _At,_ sweetie, not _with._

She’s only got a little face left. She’s got to save it. 

“You’re _pathological,_ ” she says, forcing out an icy laugh. “You’re a _psycho._ ” Brian reacts like she’s coldcocked him, reeling back. “Like, this is done, obviously.” She turns her back on all three of them and goes back to the dressing room, starts tearing himself out of herself as fast as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback of any kind is how i live, and i appreciate it so much more than you know.


	6. as you break into a million parts

Is this the worst night of his life? Could be; he has to deep-dive into the murky waters of early childhood to find a memory this steeped in pain and humiliation. Which is a privilege, maybe. That’s one way to look at it. 

Word is traveling fast, faster than Trixie could ever get out in front of it, too much damage to ever control. Kim texts him: _giiiiiirl holy shit are u ok?_ Bob, wandering through the dressing room between sets, puts one big hand on Trixie’s shoulder and doesn’t say anything. Silence is mercy; any kind word is going to snap him like a twig, and crying in front of these people isn’t an option. Someday, he’s sure, they’ll joke about this. He can hear Bob’s dry-ass read in his mind: _Trixie Mattel, at least you’re consistent. This particular matrix of professional and personal failure is extremely on-brand for you, bitch._

He sends Kim a thumbs-up emoji, the universal sign for _I’m staving off the suicidal thoughts,_ and leaves it at that for now. 

He can’t help it; as he cold-creams his face off, headphones in his ears, ignoring everyone else in the room, he pulls up YouTube and finds a clip of the dead queen he’s been sleeping with. 

She’s something between a punchline and a ghost story; a running joke, urban-legendary. The best, the most iconic, everyone’s favorite. A shoe-in for the big show, if she wanted to go that way. And then, full Hindenburg - crashed, burned, cancelled. Never seen or heard from again. Hubris or drugs or a nervous breakdown, maybe all of the above. _Dasvidaniya,_ Marishka. Everyone knows someone who was there the night she lost her mind and trashed the stage and fled halfway through her act. It all went down right before Trixie moved out here, a few years back. He never met her; by the time he was settled in LA and getting gigs Katya was long gone, nothing more than a double-jointed cautionary tale. 

“Don’t pull a Katya,” the girls would say, with that signature blend of sisterly concern and gallows humor so germane to their species. Which could mean anything: _don’t get too fucked up before the show_ or _don’t overreact_ or _don’t quit drag_ or _stay sharp, don’t get murdered by a cab driver._ Everybody had a Katya story: she was actually really so sweet; she was killer with a needle, stitched my bodice back together last-minute that one time; she was, oh, absolutely tweaking that one night at Mickey’s, girl, remember? “Oh, yeah, we were lesbians once, for a hot second,” Violet is saying to one of the other girls. Trixie can hear her through his earbuds. He raises the volume a few clicks, but it doesn’t matter. “But I guess she goes to rehab and gets a bunch of tattoos and now she’s into whatever _that_ whole thing is. Did you see her? _Butch. Trade._ Bitch, I’m gagged.”

 _That_ whole thing is watching the video on his phone as he wipes away the last of his paint, already back in his boy clothes. So much easier coming off than going on. The queen in the video is leggy, manic, sexy: cartwheel into flying split into cat-in-heat writhing on the floor of the club. She’s a goddamn biological woman, lip syncing to a pop song Trixie knows by heart, but in fucking Russian. 

She’s moving too fast for Trixie to really see her face, but that body he’d know anywhere, even tucked and padded. Knows it in the dark. Knows the manner of those limbs from a hundred yoga flows, from so many humid nights, so many lazy afternoons. 

Except he doesn’t know this bitch at all. 

He grabs his shit and ducks out the back. He can’t look at Bob or Kim, can’t walk through this audience, even though there’s no way they’d recognize him. He shoulders open the door to the alley behind the bar, where the dumpsters are, right where he belongs. 

And there’s Brian - Katya - whoever the fuck it is, tapping away at his phone furiously, dragging hard on a cigarette. He’s curled in on himself, shoulders concave, like he’s trying to will himself an exoskeleton, roach that he is. When he looks up and sees Trixie, his face crumples. Trixie watches him cry. 

“Should’ve never come back here.” Brian covers his eyes with one hand. “The second you told me you were a queen, I should’ve known this was gonna happen. I should’ve never come back. Would’ve been better for us both. I just wanted to see you.”

Trixie wants a knife, wants to twist it. “You know what’s the real gag?” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re not even hot enough to justify how much time I’ve wasted on you.”

Brian receives this, closes his eyes and lets it soak into him. He drops his cigarette on the dirty ground and crushes it underfoot. “Nope,” he agrees. His phone lights up in his hand, pinging softly. 

“Who’s that?” Trixie points with his chin. “Another queen whose asshole you lived vicariously through at some point?”

Brian shakes his head, hard. “No, it’s my sponsor.”

The puzzle assembles in Trixie’s brain. “You never even told me you had - so, what, you’re - you never said - ” he splutters, mortified. “I brought you _booze._ ”

“I didn’t drink it,” Brian points out mildly. 

Fury surges adolescent and spiky under Trixie’s tongue. He drops his bag on the ground, takes a big step toward Brian, into his lingering cloud of cigarette smoke. “Do you realize how unfair this is?” he yells in his face. He never yells. “How much shit I’ve been - there are _so_ many ways I could’ve hurt you without even knowing I’d be doing it. You never even gave me a chance to get it right! You never told me _anything_ about you, just a bunch of lies. You _lied_ to me!”

Brian takes Trixie’s arms in a vise grip, pulls him in even closer. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to lie. I just - I didn’t want you to see me that way,” he says. There’s an edge of desperation in his voice that makes Trixie feel truly sick. “I wanted to try it - being, like, a nice guy you met at yoga, not being all this fucking - _shit_ I have, all this fucking _history,_ or. And then, I knew I had to, and - I was going to tell you everything, but you - ”

“But what? But I what?” Trixie wrestles free, shoves Brian away, steps back out of grasping distance. Brian looks sheepish. 

“Well, you said you wouldn’t date a queen, and…”

“That’s such _bullshit,_ Brian,” Trixie snaps. His eyes sting. “And you’re not,” he adds. “You’re not nice. You’re a liar. You didn’t trust me. This whole time, like, I thought we were _building_ something, but you were just figuring out how to keep me as clueless as you could about your life, because - why? You didn’t think I could handle all your shit? Which, that just sucks, because I - ” His throat catches, and he takes a big breath. Can’t say it, now. “Because _I_ trusted _you._ With everything.”

“I was scared! Of this!” Brian slices the air with his hands, indicating the whole awful night around them. “That’s all. It wasn’t you, it was never you. You can’t, you can’t know, Tracy, what it’s like just being the nervous wreck, the fucking basket case that everyone tiptoes around. Being treated like the town fuckup.”

“But that’s what you are,” Trixie says coolly. He picks up his bag, and then stands there. 

“Yeah. I know, Mary. I know,” Brian murmurs. He’s gone hunted-still, gaze steady on a point near Trixie’s shoes. “I had to get out. I had to stop. I quit all of it. I dropped my whole life. I got into the program, I did the meetings. I started feeling better. I worked on it for _years._ But I - when I met you, I thought - you reminded me that this is supposed to be _fun._ I felt like, this is it, I can do it, maybe I’m ready to go back.” He shakes his head. “To me, you know - when I look at you, I see someone who’s not afraid of anything. You made me wanna be brave. You’re a real fucking artist, Trixie, I just thought -“

“Thought what?” Trixie cocks his head. “You could get your little drag fix off me and, like, get your dick sucked on the side?”

“That isn’t it at all.” Brian’s eyes flash up to his face. His voice cracks. “Oh, god, please, please don’t think that.”

They watch each other. Trixie sniffles. Brian paws at his eyes. “I’m gonna go,” Trixie says. 

Brian nods. “Of course,” he rasps. “You should.”

He hefts his drag bag higher on his shoulder. He turns away, starts walking back toward the front of the club, the strip. Behind him, Brian makes a dry, shuddering sound. 

Something inside his rib cage splits. He turns back. “Give me one,” he orders, holding his hand out. 

Brian looks utterly confused, then follows Trixie’s gaze down to the pack of American Spirits half-crumpled in his hand. “You hate cigarettes,” he protests meekly.

“ _Give_ me one, bitch,” growls Trixie. 

“Honey,” Brian says gently, “you know I love a big moment of drama, but you are not gonna enjoy this experience.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Trixie shrills. “I want a fucking cigarette.” Without another word, Brian fumbles one out of the pack, lights it up and hands it to Trixie. He wants to feel something sparking, wants to experience this damage as a tangible thing. He sucks, and the acrid taste fills his mouth. Good. He wants to wreck his throat, burn himself up. He inhales deeply. 

Immediately, he’s on the ground, coughing so hard he thinks he might puke. Brian drops to his knees beside him, hovers there like a bad idea. 

“Yeah, no, I have no idea what you thought was going to happen,” he offers, over the din of Trixie hacking up both lungs and a kidney. “I just…I truly cannot imagine what you thought you’d gain from that.”

“So horrible,” Trixie croaks, eyes streaming. “Why do you do this? You really are - disgusting, you’re awful, you make me so fucking sad - ” The tears won’t stop. He half-cries, “You _hurt_ me. This _hurts._ ”

“I know,” Brian says. Gingerly, he places a hand between Trixie’s shoulder blades and rubs. Trixie can’t look at him, can barely see through his wet eyes, just takes deep, shaky breaths until they start to level out. They’re both quiet. 

After a moment, Brian says, “I want to tell you I’m sorry. That I never, ever want to hurt you again. But I know you have no reason to trust or believe me. That’s what I did. That’s - I do that.” There’s a tremble in Brian’s voice, but he’s fighting through it. “Y’know, honey, bad things have happened to you in your life. Rotten things.” Trixie shakes his head mutely, but Brian goes on, “It’s not like that for me. I’ve mostly done ‘em to myself. And to nice people, good people, who deserve a lot better.”

“Stop it,” Trixie mutters. “Don’t be like that. It’s not cute.”

“I’m not trying to be cute.” Brian takes his hand off Trixie’s back, and the spot between his shoulder blades goes cold. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m telling you that I know that you’d be better off walking away from here and never seeing me again. You _would._ ” His voice chokes off, and when he speaks again the words are ruined, broken into pieces. “But I’m selfish, and I don’t _want_ you to.”

Trixie stares down at the ground. It goes blurry and then clear as he blinks. “Just tell me, like, was any of this real for you?” he asks quietly. “Like, did you mean any of it, or.”

Brian grabs his face between his palms, brings it level with his own. Trixie should push him away. He doesn’t. “Yes,” he says seriously. “Yes. All of it. Even if all the words weren’t - I _meant_ everything. It is _so_ real for me. You - you make me real. We have _this._ ” He moves his hand between their chests, tracing that little network of wires that’s always zapping away between their hearts. “Don’t we have this?”

Trixie looks at him. He looks back, clear and steady. If Trixie squints, he can see that woman, that dangerous, strange woman staring out at him, just like the one on the wall. But there’s also the man he knows, so well, the one whose jokes make him laugh like nobody else’s, the one who knows how to set him up for the perfect punchline, the one who knows how to calm his frantic breathing, who knows how to put peace back in his muscles. The one who knows everything about him. 

“No more lies,” Trixie says. “Tell me everything.”

Brian exhales sharply. His expression goes a tiny bit hopeful. “‘Everything’ is a pretty long story, mama,” he says. 

Trixie lets out a low, wry laugh. “I got nowhere to be,” he says. His eyes are welling again. “I don’t know if you saw, but I kinda just torpedoed my whole career out there…”

Brian laughs, too, shakily. “I don’t know, I think your hole’s still got a great career ahead of it,” he says, then cringes away from his own terrible, way-too-fucking-soon joke. 

Trixie is almost stunned into a real cackle. Almost. But he just shakes his head, fighting back the tightness in his throat. 

“Trixie, no, you were perfect,” Brian insists softly. “You always are. I’m sorry. You want the truth, that’s the truth. Okay? And so is this. You ready?” He extends his hand, as if for a shake. “Hi. I’m Brian.” 

Trixie considers the hand, thinks about taking it. Then he leans in instead, bumps his forehead carefully against Brian’s. “Hi,” he says quietly. 

Brian blows out another breath. “But… if you want to, you can call me Katya." He nudges Trixie’s nose with his own. “Some of my friends do, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if you’re into this stuff, but I thought I’d go ahead and publish a playlist of the songs that I listened to while writing this. They both informed and project its vibe, in my mind:  
> https://spoti.fi/2VMl5zQ
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who threatened to murder me after last chapter for...not doing that! I love you all so much, and I’m glad you’ve stuck with me thus far. 
> 
> Feedback is the chemical burn from the spiral perm!!


	7. is it too late to live in your heart, too late to burn all your civilian clothes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez ok so it happened, we’re in Explicit territory now. Strap in! Also, a quick note: the scene in question contains several instances of verbal “no” that actually mean (and are interpreted as) “enthusiastic yes.” The sex depicted is one hundred percent consensual, but just proceed with caution if that’s sensitive for you.

_Later_

“Bitch!” Trixie yells through the door. “There is a _fucking drought,_ you know.” 

Brian doesn’t answer, but the shower slams off in a noisy downpour. Trixie sucks his teeth. 

“You good?” he asks, tapping his knuckles lightly against the doorframe. 

“Yeah, I just need a minute,” Brian calls back. He sounds shaky. Trixie rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so,” he says, and lets himself in.

The humid air drapes around him. He settles on the toilet lid, picking at his nails. “What’s going on?” he asks. 

“I’m fine,” Brian says from the other side of the shower curtain. He sounds low, physically; Trixie can practically see him folded in on himself on the floor of the tub, chin on his knees. 

“Oh, is that the T?” Trixie laughs. “Yeah, you seem great. Show me.”

“I’m scared you’ll hate it.” An arm shoots out, gropes for a towel. Trixie hands one over, and it retreats. 

“You are being literally so dumb,” Trixie says, “I’m embarrassed for you. Why should you give a fuck what I think?”

“Because I’ve grown accustomed to your ass, and I don’t wanna find a new one to - y’know, stick my dingaling in,” Brian says, and then explodes into a wild cackle. Trixie snorts. 

“It’s just a beard,” he says. “It’ll grow back. Knowing you, it’ll grow back in like forty minutes.” 

“Yeah, I know. I know. Oh, fuck it. Okay.” Brian’s fingers appear on the curtain, and then he wrenches it open. 

Trixie screams, diving forward to touch the smooth skin of his face. “Who are you?” he squeals. “This is so _weird!_ ”

He looks - not exactly older or younger, but smaller, maybe. Not diminished so much as clarified. Brian presses Trixie’s hands against his own cheeks, holding him there, bringing their faces close. “Do you haaaate it?” he asks. He twists his expression up into a nervous grimace, like he thinks he might be about to get on the wrong side of a punch, but there’s half a laugh in it. “Do you hate _me?_ ”

“Oh, I _absolutely_ hate you,” Trixie assures him. Brian wheezes. “This, though,” he says, tracing his thumb over Brian’s lower lip, “I can probably get used to, if I have to.” He leans in, experimentally, and kisses him.

On some level, Trixie had been afraid it would be like kissing someone else. A girl, maybe. But it’s exactly the same, minus the irritant of bristles. It really is just a beard. The way he kisses, like Trixie is a gift, like he needs him to breathe, is exactly the same. 

“Come here, come here,” Brian whispers against Trixie’s mouth, wrapping him up in his arms and shifting his weight suddenly back to take Trixie off balance. He slips forward with a yelp, and Brian falls back, pulling Trixie into the tub on top of him. 

His skin is warm and wet, soaking Trixie’s clothes as their bodies slide together. 

“Stop, seriously,” Trixie says, wriggling out of his damp shirt as Brian tugs at it, “we don’t have time for this.”

“Time is an illusion, honey,” Brian says, voice suddenly rough. He runs his hands over Trixie’s bare skin, traces his spine. “You ever think about that?”

“No, because I’m not a total burnout,” Trixie says, rolling his eyes, fighting to keep the want out of his own voice. Because Brian likes to work for it, sometimes, when he’s really anxious. Trixie knows all his tells. On a night like this, it’s good to keep him out of his head, in his body. 

And besides, they have an hour more than he told Brian. He can lie too, bitch. 

Brian’s mouthing at his neck, breathing ragged, and it lights a little fire in his own body. A garbage fire, but a fire nonetheless. 

“Lemme blow you,” Brian murmurs against his ear, and that’s kerosene. 

“Girl, what did I literally just say?” Trixie grits out. He raises his hips to let Brian get him out of the rest of his clothes. The only thing between them now is the damp towel draped over Brian’s waist, and Trixie can feel him through it, how hard he is for him. Without the familiar scrim of hair on Brian’s body, their skin feels so close Trixie imagines for a moment they’re merging into one organism: one lizard brain that needs this, one stupid heart pumping pure mercury into every hungry cell. 

“I forget,” Brian says. His hands wander down to Trixie’s ass and squeeze. “Bad memory, old age…” His thumb drifts inward, pressing tentatively. Trixie’s jaw clenches tight. “Come on,” Brian coos, “live a little.”

“Oh my god - ” Trixie lifts off of Brian with some effort, gets a knee up on the lip of the tub by Brian’s shoulder, and edges in closer. Brian sits up straighter under him, bracing a hand on Trixie’s hip to balance him. “Only because this is the only proven way to make you stop talking,” Trixie says, and guides his cock into Brian’s open mouth. 

He moans around him, eager, almost grateful. Trixie grins down at him. “You’re shameless,” he chides softly, and Brian does it again, way louder this time. Trixie holds back a laugh, but it chokes him halfway through when Brian takes him deeper. His left hand, bracing against the tile, slips, and he grabs for the soap dish so he doesn’t fall and kill both of them. Brian tightens his hold on Trixie’s waist, a reassuring counterbalance. He’s sucking him like he’s trying to prove a point, but his face is utterly calm, eyes glassy and adoring when they open. “Quit it,” he murmurs, but Brian just gazes up at him, unblinking. Trixie lolls his head back; it’s just this side of too much to look at him like this. 

Brian brings both hands around to grip Trixie’s ass. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Trixie breathes, and then does absolutely nothing to stop him as he starts pushing one finger inside him, then another. 

He knows him well, so well. Knows his body; can read him like music, play him like an instrument. He finds his prostate fast, rubs at it with intent until Trixie’s strung out from it, writhing, all pretense of cool detachment totally abandoned. “I seriously,” he’s gasping, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, “seriously hate you, you’re - what are you trying to _do_ to me?” 

Brian adds a third finger, but pulls off Trixie’s cock, making him groan helplessly. “Kill you,” he says sweetly. “Or make you shoot your load down my fucking throat, whichever comes first.”

Trixie’s jaw drops. Brian surges forward and sucks him back into his mouth. “Wait, wait,” Trixie gasps, “fuck, hang on, I’m gonna come.”

Brian pulls away and looks up at him seriously. “Well, what’s the holdup?” he asks, eyes wide. “I mean, think of all the time we’ve lost thanks to your incredible stamina - just awful, it’s been, what was that, like three and a half minutes?” 

“Fuck you, bitch!” Trixie eases himself down onto Brian’s lap, barely holding himself up on his shaking arms. Brian’s so hard, it’s all Trixie can feel. Trixie arches his back, rocking his hips down against him, pushing his ass up so Brian can keep working him open. Desire throbs through him, urgent and smoking. Still, he bites out, “You know, like, I was gonna let you fuck me, but since you’re so concerned about time all of a sudden…”

“Oh, yeah?” Brian asks earnestly, stroking into him in long, slow thrusts. “You were gonna _let_ me? Oh my god, _wow,_ Trixie. You’d do me that _honor?_ ”

“Yeah, because I’m a _nice fucking person._ ” It’s taking every bit of control he has not to moan, not to beg for it, but he holds it together. “But I can fully just leave you here so you can finish getting ready solo. If you’d prefer that.”

“Oh, no, you can’t,” Brian says with a grin. Trixie reaches between them and pushes the towel aside, finally, grabs him and strokes. Brian’s hips pivot up into the touch. “You like it too much,” he rasps, raising a smug eyebrow. 

“Oh my god. Don’t come for me,” Trixie mutters. Even if it’s true, even if he is in fact _choking_ for it. There’s a little thing of lube up on the shelf over their heads by the body wash, and a few condoms. Just for emergencies, like this one. He hoists himself up, using all the core strength he’s got, and fumbles for it. Toiletries rain down on them - Brian shrieks in surprised laughter, throwing his hands over his face - but it does the trick. Trixie lowers back down and drops the lube on Brian’s chest. “You don’t know my life.” He tears open a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it down unceremoniously onto Brian’s dick. Unlike some people he could name, he doesn’t have to make a meal out of every second of prep. Someone has to keep the train on the fucking rails around here. 

“Sure, honey, you’re a real enigma,” Brian says. He starts slicking himself up, and Trixie watches his face cloud, watches his eyes go dark. 

“And you’re a pain in the ass,” Trixie starts to say, before he feels the head of Brian’s cock nudging at him and language fails him. 

“You know, if it’s a _lot_ of pain, you should consult with a trusted physician,” Brian quips weakly, pushing inside. Trixie slaps a hand over Brian’s mouth to shut him up and takes him to the hilt, making both of them shudder. 

Trixie feels Brian’s lips part under his palm and accommodates; he shoves a couple fingers in his mouth to keep him busy. “God, you feel good,” he tells him, starting to work himself up and down on his cock. “Like this, don’t you?”

Brian makes a quiet, dreamy sound of assent, but his grip on Trixie’s hips gets tighter, more commanding, helping him ride. “Yeah,” Trixie murmurs, “that’s it, c’mon. Give it to me.”

Brian does, taking over the rhythm, fucking up into him hard enough that Trixie’s eyes roll back. A sound, unschooled and needy, escapes his mouth. Brian’s still obediently sucking Trixie’s fingers, but his eyes go wicked. 

“Shut _up,_ ” Trixie breathes, but he gives himself over to it, dropping his head down on Brian’s shoulder and pivoting back for more. Brian’s making these quiet sounds around Trixie’s fingers and his breath is starting to stutter. “That’s it,” Trixie urges, “that’s - yeah, uh-huh, just like that.”

Brian bites down, not at all gently. Trixie yelps and pulls his hand free. “Fuck,” he hisses, “al _right._ ” Not like he really minds - he wraps his spit-slick fingers around his own cock and twists. Brian gets his hand under Trixie’s and takes over for him, jerking him off fast and precise. “Fuck,” Trixie blurts again, uselessly, “you’re - I’m gonna - ”

“Kiss me,” Brian pleads, voice achingly tender and soft against the rough pace he’s set. Trixie feels his face flushing. He thinks to say something snarky to diffuse the intimacy, remind Brian what a pansy he is, but when he opens his mouth, all that leaves him is a low moan. And it’s all bullshit anyway, because all he really wants to do is give him everything, anything he wants. He takes Brian’s face in both hands and kisses him how he likes it, the way he feels, like the act itself contains a secret he can’t keep another second. Then he’s coming, pleasure flooding his limbs, with Brian’s fist around his cock and his tongue in his mouth. That seems to be what takes Brian over the edge; he lets out a wrecked sound, thrusting up into Trixie, holding him tight like a promise. 

They lay there, panting, intertwined. They kiss a little more. Trixie lets his eyes close, gives Brian all his weight, breathes him in. 

“Fuck,” Brian gasps. He convulses with laughter, shaking Trixie’s whole body with it, which makes Trixie laugh, too. “I really - fucking _needed_ that.”

“You’re welcome,” Trixie says drily, biting the tip of his nose. Brian lets out a muted squeak. Trixie looks at him seriously. “Feel a little better?” he asks, softer.

His expression sobers, and he nods. Trixie starts lifting himself out of the tub, stretching his cramped legs. “Ready to focus now?”

Brian cracks his neck about six ways. “Mhmm.”

“Hey.” Trixie looks at him seriously. “9 o’clock we’re out the door, got it? Get started _now,_ bitch, you’re way out of practice. Not to mention, with your cataracts and your arthritis - ”

“I’ll be fine, you cunt.” Brian shoos away the thought with a catty flick of his wrist. But he lets Trixie step back and pull him to his feet, and Trixie doesn’t miss the shift in his expression as the nerves start to settle back over him like a veil. 

Brian’s commandeered Bob’s vanity while she’s off filming; he’d given the arrangement his extremely qualified blessing, once the dust had settled a bit. (“You didn’t tell me it was _this_ Brian,” he’d said, striking him nearly dead before God with side-eye when Trixie finally brought him home for a formal introduction. 

“I didn’t know, obviously,” Trixie said, rolling his own eyes heavenward. 

“That was kinda the whole thing,” Brian added helpfully, leaning in for a tentative hug and an air kiss. “Hey, though, honey, it’s really nice to see you again.”

Bob had folded his arms over his chest, not looking at Trixie at all. “You still a lying junkie hooker?” he’d asked Brian, deadpan. 

Brian didn’t flinch. “Not, like, entirely,” he’d said. Trixie had put a hand on the small of his back, but Brian really didn’t need his help. “I don’t charge for blowjobs anymore. Now I’m just a lying junkie _slut._ ”

That had cracked Bob’s composure, for half a second, and the air loosened up. “You’re looking good, Down Dog,” he’d said. His mouth wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were, a little.)

Now, they paint back to back in the little drag room, peering into opposite mirrors, catching each other’s light. It’s still unclear what they’re going to put Brian in once his face sets. He’s only retained a few pieces, his very favorites: some gothy sequins and lace, some shimmering red silk, some eye-bleedingly dizzy black and white chevron lycra. None of them are going to look right without padding, of which he has essentially none, so he’s gonna have to alter something on the fly. He’s borrowing a wig from Trixie, and a cincher, and all of his makeup. It’ll take a while to build his wardrobe back up, but Trixie figures they’re up to the task. If the old photos he’s seen are anything to go by, Brian’s not afraid of a needle and thread. 

“Ain’t you got any red, bitch?” Brian complains, swatching magenta and violet lipsticks on an un-inked strip of forearm. 

Trixie sticks out his tongue, eyes meeting Brian’s in their opposite mirrors. “Gross, no,” he says. “You want red, buy your own.”

Brian curses in Russian under his breath. But he leans back on his stool and presses his spine against Trixie’s, a warm weight. 

Trixie can tell he’s putting on a brave face. He clocks his jiggling leg, his close-bitten nails. But he doesn’t press, just catches his eye in the mirror again and says, “That’s a pretty color for your skin, honey.”

“Thanks, Sephora.” His mouth curls gleefully, and they both rush to get the joke out before the other: 

“Ladiesandgentlemenpleasewelcometothestage: _SEPHORAAA!_ ”

They shriek with laughter. God, Trixie is lucky his neighbors haven’t hate-crimed them both. 

“Hey, Trixie,” Brian says, leaning closer to his mirror to start sculpting his cheekbones.

“Mm.” Trixie tries to see his face, but all he gets is the back of his head. 

“You know I love you, right? I do. I really love you a lot.”

Trixie’s heart sprouts wings, tries to soar out of his mouth and circle the room. He keeps his expression totally neutral so he doesn’t ruin his liner. “I know, you psycho.” 

Brian hums, satisfied. Some other version of Trixie might leave it at that. This one probably should. 

But he says instead, prayer-soft, “I love you, too.”

Brian drops his brush with a clatter. “You do?” he asks, whirling to face him. Trixie turns so they’re eye to eye. 

“Yes, you idiot,” he says, smacking his bicep with the back of his hand. Brian giggles shrilly. “I’ve loved you for - ages, okay, God only knows why - ”

Brian pulls him close and stops him with a kiss, hot and needy. “I love you so much,” he whispers. “C’mon, let’s go again - we _totally_ have time, let’s do it - ”

Trixie almost gives in. Oh, he _really_ does. 

“No!” he yelps, tearing himself away. He can feel himself grinning, and doesn’t bother to hide it. “You still look like a fucking cadaver. Fix your face.”

“That’s just my _aesthetic,_ mawma,” Brian purrs, and then lapses into hysterics. But he doesn’t push. 

They work in silence for a while. Trixie watches himself disappear, watches herself emerge like a poisoned candy apple from a witch’s cauldron. Hey, girl, hey. At a certain point, she becomes aware that Brian’s breathing is coming a little uneven, and she leans back, matching up their vertebrae again. “You good?” she asks again. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Katya,” Trixie says, trying it out. It feels like a joke in her mouth, like they’re kids playing pretend.

A long pause. “Yeah,” Katya responds, and suddenly it’s real. Trixie swallows.

“Don’t lie to me, okay?”

She’s silent for a minute. Trixie watches in the mirror, mostly obscured, as her big eyes dart around, then come to focus on themselves. “I am good,” Katya says. “This is just a lot.” 

Trixie nods. There’s not much more to say. It is a lot. 

She’s baked before Katya, who truly is out of practice; Trixie can tell from the way she keeps _motherfucker!_ -ing under her breath and re-doing her lines. She takes her guitar off the wall and strums a little, eyeing the hunched slant of Katya’s narrow shoulders. 

“ _While you are away,_ ” she sings, _“my heart comes undone.”_

Katya trills happily, like a strange bird. “I love that one!” 

Like Trixie doesn’t know that, like that isn’t why she learned it. _“Slowly unravel in a ball of yarn…”_

Katya sings along, tonelessly, as she reaches for her sparkly black dress and whips it inside-out to start cutting. Trixie watches her shoulders relax down a little as she works and sings, and smiles to herself. 

She plays it twice through, then just riffs loosely on the chords while Katya reworks her dress, a process not nearly as long as Trixie might have expected from a girl who hasn’t touched a Kenmore in years. Bitch really knows how to construct. She plays until the dress is on, and the wig - a failed experiment of Trixie’s, a wavy lob with blunt bangs, the worst possible shape for Trixie’s face - and then she puts the guitar back on its pegs and turns. “It’s time, girl,” she says. 

Katya nods. She’s got her back to Trixie still, looking at herself in the mirror. “I know.”

Trixie takes a step closer. “Let me see you.”

Katya sniffles. 

“Oh. My _god._ You ruin your makeup and I’ll have you institutionalized,” Trixie hisses.

“Ooh, yes, please, I love a good institution,” Katya says with a giggle. Then she turns. 

Looking at her is eerie - familiar, on a cosmic, star-stuff level. She’s dropped the neckline on her mini-dress hard, revealing a flat chest, but she’s belted it over her tightly cinched waist, creating a chic, waifish silhouette. The sleeves of the dress hide her tattoos completely. Her beat, even rusty from years of neglect, feels like a natural expression of her best features. That mouth is its own secret world. Those blue eyes, lashed and ringed in black, could stop a heart, or start one back up. Trixie, who is gayer than Christmas, feels a sudden, incongruous bolt of attraction. 

“God,” she says, half-laughing, “I really do hate you. You’re way prettier than me.”

“Nobody’s prettier than you,” Katya says. She grins coyly. “Except maybe me.”

Trixie pulls out her phone and orders a car. Katya loops her arms around Trixie’s waist and nuzzles in close while they wait. 

She says lowly, “When I first started doing drag, it was such a gag to feel like a _girl,_ you know. Like, to get into all the parts of me that make more sense when I look like this, the parts of me that are soft, or whatever, or like, sexy. I dunno.”

Trixie hums affirmative, even though she can’t relate at all. Whatever she feels like in geish, it’s definitely not a girl. Nothing about her makes sense in drag. That’s why she likes it. 

“But then it was like - you forget that there are parts of being a girl that are a real fuckin’ bummer. Like being looked at all the time, even when you don’t wanna be.” 

“Hey,” Trixie cuts in, “if this is bad for you, you literally do not have to come. I don’t care. I can go alone. Like, you know that’s more important to me, right?”

“No, no,” Katya says, shaking her head, “I want to. I’m just.” She laughs quietly. “I’m fucking scared. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Yes, it is,” Trixie says. “ _I’m_ not scared. And you watched me eat shit and die onstage pretty recently.”

Katya looks up at her with watery blue eyes. “You know I might relapse.”

Trixie opens her mouth, then closes it again. She brushes a wave of hair off Katya’s face, tucks it behind her ear. Katya’s eyes close into the touch. “Sure, honey, you might,” Trixie agrees. Why pretend? Katya rests her forehead carefully on Trixie’s shoulder. Trixie rubs a hand across the black glitter over Katya’s spine, watches it catch the light. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we faceplant directly onto it, okay?” She presses on the _we,_ the door of it, hopes Katya can hear where it’s open wide enough for her to slip through.

Katya huffs out a quiet laugh. She turns her face in, protecting her makeup. Trixie feels the soft crush of her hair rustle across her neck. “People could be, like, not delighted to see me, you know,” she mumbles into Trixie’s collarbone. “Speaking of bridges, I burned a lot of them on my way out the last time.”

“Oh, fuck them,” Trixie spits, stepping back to face her head-on. “Like, who needs those bridges? Those bridges _suck._ They burned them-damn-selves. You’re better off without them.” 

Trixie doesn’t know when she’ll stop being mad about the other girls, the ones who love to brag about how tight they were with Katya when she was well, who vanished in a puff of glitter when she needed them. “You know, like, not everything is your fault,” she tells Katya. “You've got to let some of it go. Other people fuck up, too. They fail. They don’t listen to you when you’re trying to talk, sometimes, or.” Trixie’s lungs twist up with shame. “Or maybe they interrupt you too much. Or they get mad and make it all about themselves because they’re chickenshit and they don’t know what else to do, or, like...” 

Katya idly plucks a few of the buttons on Trixie’s dress open, then fastens them up again with deft fingers. “No, I don’t hold that against anybody,” she says quietly, eyes on the garment, not Trixie’s face. 

“That’s because for being a total sack of shit, you’re actually a halfway decent person,” Trixie says dryly. Katya snorts, shakes her head. 

“I don’t know if I can go back,” she breathes. “Like, I know that I want to, but I don’t know if I can do it.”

Trixie grabs Katya’s index finger and gives it a double-squeeze. _Honk, honk._ “You’d be surprised what you can come back from, mama,” she murmurs. Her lips twitch. “Some quivering bald homo told me that once, and it really stuck with me.” 

Katya doubles over, wheezing. Trixie’s phone vibrates; the car’s outside. The poor driver has no idea what kind of sweaty, dysfunctional shitshow is about to slide into his backseat. “Listen to me,” Trixie says. “You know why I’m not scared? Because of you, girl. Whatever happens up there tonight, it happens to both of us. So nobody can touch us. It’s our show.”

Katya nods once, taking this in. “Not theirs,” she agrees. She’s smiling now, a little, and like it always does, the sight of it puts a flutter in Trixie’s throat she can’t swallow away. She is - Trixie’s not about to tell her, but - she really is beautiful. “I’m okay to go. _I’m okay to go._ ” 

“Okay, good, finally,” says Trixie.

“I’m okay to go,” Katya repeats. Her smile gets a little wider. She smacks Trixie’s arm conspiratorially. “I’m okay to go!” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Trixie demands. “Are you having a stroke, grandma?”

Her face falls, then grows furious. “Hang on, you’ve never seen _Contact?_ ” she asks. She looks so incensed by this that Trixie squawks out a laugh.

“Why would I have ever seen that film?” she asks. Katya throws up her hands. 

“Because it’s fucking fantastic, bitch! I can’t believe how much you’ve missed out on!” She blows out an aggravated breath. “All this time…I have so much to teach you, still.”

A car blasts its horn outside. Trixie peers out the front door to see some kind of sedan - as if she’d know what make or model - idling in front of the building, hazards flashing. She turns back to Katya, who reaches out to Trixie for balance as she wiggles into her shoes. Trixie puts her hand on Katya’s to steady her. “I guess you do,” Trixie says. A thought rises, as it has so many times these last few weeks, but instead of pushing it down like she usually does, she speaks it. “I mean, maybe we just met at the wrong time,” she says, and her voice sounds thin in her own ears, fragile as a cobweb.

Katya gets her feet under her and stands up straight. She takes Trixie’s face very gently in her hands and leans up. 

“Don’t,” Trixie starts, but when Katya kisses her she swoons into it helplessly, lipstick stains be damned. She tangles her fingers up with Katya’s, clutches her close enough to feel the heat her body’s throwing. The car horn honks again and they pull apart like guilty schoolkids. 

“No, honey,” Katya says after a minute. She opens the front door and gestures Trixie through. They might not be too late, after all. “No. This is perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine trixie’s folksy-ass “Unravel” cover sounding kinda like this:  
> https://youtu.be/xEMTIyEqvYs
> 
> You guys this is it! A couple people have expressed interest in this story continuing, and while to me it feels pretty wrapped-up narratively, I’m super down to take requests for one-shots in the universe. Feel free to treat this comments section like an ask box if there’s anything you’d like to read, and I’ll try my best to make it happen if I can.
> 
> Seriously, thank you so much for reading and commenting or leaving kudos or anything you do to show appreciation. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope you liked reading it!


End file.
